“I believe it, Mr. Folliard,” said the baronet, “for these are the identical terms in which he told me the story before; proceed, O’Donnel.”

“‘The ould scoundrel of a father,’ says he, ’on his return from Boyle, generally comes by the ould road, because it is the shortest cut.  Do you and your men lie in wait in the ruins of the ould chapel, near Loch na Garran’—­it is called so, sir, because they say there’s a wild horse in it that comes out of moonlight nights to feed on the patches of green that are here and there among the moors—­’near Loch na Gaitan,’ says he; ’and when he gets that far turn out upon him, charge him with transportin’ your uncle, and when you are levellin’ your gun at him, I will come, by the way, and save him.  You and I must speak angry to one another, you know; then, of course, I must see him home, and he can’t do less than ask me to dine with him.  At all events, thinkin’ that I saved his life, we will become acquainted.’”

The squire paused and mused for some time, and then asked, “Was there no more than this between you and him?”

“Nothing more, sir.”

“And tell me, did he pay you the money?”

“Here it is,” replied the Rapparee, pulling out a rag in which were the precise number of guineas mentioned.

“But,” said the squire, “we lost our way in the fog.”

“Yes, sir,” said the Rapparee.  “Everything turned out in his favor.  That made very little difference.  You would have been attacked in or about that place, whether or not.”

“Yes, but did you not attack my house that night?  Did not you yourself come down by the skylight, and enter, by violence, into my daughter’s apartment?”

“Well, when I heard of that, sir, I said, ’I give Reilly up for ingenuity.’  No, sir, that was his own trick; but afther all it was a bad one, and tells aginst itself.  Why, sir, neither I nor any of my men have the power of makin’ ourselves invisible.  Do you think, sir—­I put it to your own common-sense—­that if we had been there no one would have seen us?  Wasn’t the whole country for miles round searched and scoured, and I ask you, sir, was there hilt or hair of me or any one of my men seen or even heard of?  Sir Robert, I must be going now,” he added.  “I hope Squire Folliard understands what kind of a man Reilly is.  As for myself, I have nothing more to say.”

“Don’t go yet, O’Donnel,” said Whitecraft; “let us determine what is to be done with him.  You see clearly it is necessary, Mr. Folliard, that this deep-designing Jesuit should be sent out of the country.”

“I would give half my estate he was fairly out of it,” said the squire.  “He has brought calamity and misery into my family.  Created world! how I and mine have been deceived and imposed upon!  Away with him—­a thousand leagues away with him!  And that quickly too!  Oh, the plausible, deceitful villain!  My child! my child!” and here the old man burst into tears of the bitterest indignation.  “Sir Robert, that cursed villain was born, I fear, to be the shame and destruction of my house and name.”