“At all events let us keep an eye on him; an’ in regard to Connor O’Donovan’s business, let him not be too sure that it’s over wid him yet.  At any rate, by dad, my father has slipped out a name upon him an’ us that will do him no good.  The other boys now call us the Stags of Lisdhu, that bein’ the place where his father lived, an’ the nickname you see rises out of his thrachery to poor Connor O’Donovan.”

“Did he ever give any hint himself about carryin’ away the Bodagh’s pretty daughter?”

“Is it him’?  Oh, oh! catch him at it; he’s a damn sight too close to do any sich thing.”

After some further conversation upon that and other topics, they arrived at the place of appointment, which was a hedge school-house; one of those where the master, generally an unmarried man, merely wields his sceptre during school-hours, leaving it open and uninhabited for the rest of the twenty-four.

The appearance of those who were here assembled was indeed singularly striking.  A large fire of the unconsumed peat brought by the scholars on that morning, was kindled in the middle of the floor—­it’s usual site.  Around, upon stones, hobs, bosses, and seats of various descriptions, sat the “boys”—­some smoking and others drinking; for upon nights of this kind, a shebeen-housekeeper, uniformly a member of such societies, generally attends for the sale of his liquor, if he cannot succeed in prevailing on them to hold their meetings in his own house—­a circumstance which for many reasons may not be in every case advisable.  As they had not all yet assembled, nor the business of the night commenced, they were, of course, divided into several groups and engaged in various amusements.  In the lower end of the house was a knot, busy at the game of “spoiled five,” their ludicrous table being the crown of a hat, placed upon the floor in the centre.  These all sat upon the ground, their legs stretched out, their torch-bearer holding a lit bunch of fir splinters, stuck for convenience sake into the muzzle of a horse-pistol.  In the upper end, again, sat another clique, listening to a man who was reading a treasonable ballad.  Such of them as could themselves read stretched over their necks in eagerness to peruse it along with him, and such as could not—­indeed, the greater number—­gave force to its principles by very significant gestures; some being those of melody, and others those of murder; that is to say, part of them were attempting to hum a tune in a low voice, suitable to the words, whilst others more ferocious brandished their weapons, as if those against whom the spirit of the ballad was directed had been then within the reach of their savage passions.  Beside the fire, and near the middle of the house, sat a man, who, by his black stock and military appearance, together with a scar over his brow that gave him a most repulsive look, was evidently a pensioner or old soldier.  This person was engaged in examining some rusty fire-arms that had been submitted to his