“Now,” said M’Cormick, “we musn’t keep this devil’s gut, for conshumin’ to the shoe or stockin’ ever we’d bring out of it; however, do you folly me, Dandy, and there’s no danger.”

“I can do nothing else,” replied the other, “for I know no more where I am than the man of the moon, who, if all’s thrue that’s sed of him, is the biggest blockhead alive.”

M’Cormick, who knew the path well, turned off the road into a pathway that ran inside the hedge and along the fields, but parallel with the muddy boreen in question.  They now found themselves upon comparatively clear ground, and, with the exception of an occasional slip or two, in consequence of the heavy rain, they had little difficulty in advancing.  At this stage of their journey not a light was to be seen nor a sound of life heard, and it was evident that the whole population of the neighborhood had sunk to rest.

“Where will this bring us to, Ned?” asked the Dandy—­“I hope we’ll soon be at the Bodagh’s.”

M’Cormick stood and suddenly pressed his arm, “Whisht!” said he, in an under-tone, “I think I hard voices.”

“No,” replied the other in the same low tone.

“I’m sure I did,” said Ned, “take my word for it, there’s people before us on the boreen—­whisht!”

They both listened, and very distinctly heard a confused but suppressed murmur of voices, apparently about a hundred yards before them on the little bridle—­way.  Without uttering a word they both proceeded as quietly and quickly as possible, and in a few minutes nothing separated them but the hedge.  The party on the road were wallowing through the mire with great difficulty, many of them, at the same time, bestowing very energetic execrations upon it and upon those who suffered it to remain in such a condition.  Even oaths, however, were uttered in so low and cautious a tone, that neither M’Cormick nor the Dandy could distinguish their voices so clearly as to recognize those who spoke, supposing that they had known them.  Once or twice they heard the clashing of arms or of iron instruments of some sort, and it seemed to them that the noise was occasioned by the accidental jostling together of those who carried them.  At length they heard one voice exclaim rather testily.  “D—­n your blood, Bartle Flanagan, will you have patience till I get my shoe out o’ the mud—­you don’t expect me to lose it, do you?  We’re not goin’ to get a purty wife, whatever you may be.”

The reply to this was short, but pithy—­“May all the divils in hell’s fire pull the tongue out o’ you, for nothin’ but hell itself, you villin, timpted me to bring you with me.”

This was not intended to be heard, nor was it by the person against whom it was uttered, he being some distance behind—­but as Ned and his companion were at that moment exactly on the other side of the hedge, they could hear the words of this precious soliloquy—­for such it was—­delivered as they were with a suppressed energy of malignity, worthy of the heart which suggested them.