This conversation took place as Reilly and his companion bent their steps towards one of those antiquated and obsolete roads which we have described in the opening portion of this narrative.

“But now,” asked Fergus, “where do you intend to go, or what do you intend to do with yourself?”

“I scarcely know,” replied Reilly, “but on one thing my mind is determined—­that I will not leave this country until I know the ultimate fate of the Cooleen Bawn.  Rather than see her become the wife of that diabolical scoundrel, whom she detests as she does hell, I would lose my life.  Let the consequences then be what they may, I will not for the present leave Ireland.  This resolution I have come to since I saw her to-night.  I am her only friend, and, so help me God, I shall not suffer her to be sacrificed—­murdered.  In the course of the night we shall return to my house and look about us.  If the coast be clear I will secure my cash and papers as I said.  It is possible that a few stragglers may lurk behind, under the expectation of securing me while making a stolen visit.  However, we shall try.  We are under the scourge of irresponsible power, Fergus; and if Whitecraft should burn my house to-night or to-morrow, who is to bring him to an account for it? or if they should, who is to convict him?”

The night had now become very dark, but they knew the country well, and soon found themselves upon the old road they were seeking.

“I will go up,” said Reilly, “to the cabin of poor widow Buckley, where we will stop until we think those blood-hounds have gone home.  She has a free cottage and garden from me, and has besides been a pensioner of mine for some time back, and I know I can depend upon her discretion and fidelity.  Her little place is remote and solitary, and not more than three quarters of a mile from us.”

They accordingly kept the old road for some time, until they reached a point of it where there was an abrupt angle, when, to their utter alarm and consternation, they found themselves within about twenty or thirty yards of a military party.

“Fly,” whispered Fergus, “and leave me to deal with them—­if you don’t it’s all up with you.  They won’t know me from Adam, but they’ll know you at a glance.”

“I cannot leave you in danger,” said Reilly.

“You’re mad,” replied the other.  “Is it an ould beggar man they’d meddle with?  Off with you, unless you wish to sleep in Sligo jail before mornin.”

Reilly, who felt too deeply the truth of what he said, bounded across the bank which enclosed the road on the right-hand side, and which, by the way, was a tolerably high one, but fortunately without bushes.  In the meantime a voice cried out, “Who goes there?  Stand at your peril, or you will have a dozen bullets in your carcass.”

Fergus advanced towards them, whilst they themselves approached him at a rapid pace, until they met.  In a moment they were all about him.