dog, for you’re not a man, or you’d not go to take sich revenge upon a woman, an’ all for sayin’ an’ puttin’ it out on you, what I ever an’ always will do, that struv to hang Connor O’Donovan, knowin’ that it was yourself did the crime the poor boy is now sufferin’ for.  Ha! may the sweetest an’ bitterest of bad luck both meet upon you, you villin!  Amin I pray this night!”

The scene that followed this discovery, and the unexpected act which produced it, could not, we think, be properly described by either pen or pencil.  Flanagan stood with his hands alternately kept to his nose, from which he flung away the blood, as it sprung out in a most copious stream.  Two-thirds, indeed we might say three-fourths of his party, were convulsed with suppressed laughter, nor could they prevent an occasional cackle from being heard, when forcibly drawing in their breath, in an effort not to offend their leader.  The discovery of the mistake was, in itself, extremely ludicrous, but when the home truths uttered by Biddy, and the indescribable bitterness’caused by the disappointment, joined to the home blow, were all put together, it might be said that the darkness of hell itself was not so black as the rage, hatred, and thirst of vengeance, which at this moment consumed Bartle Flanagan’s heart.  He who had laid his plans so artfully that he thought failure in securing his prize impossible, now not only to feel that he was baffled by the superior cunning of a girl, and made the laughing-stock of his own party, who valued him principally upon his ability in such matters; but, in addition to this, to have his heart and feelings torn, as it were, out of his body, and flung down before him and his confreres in all their monstrous deformity, and to be jeered at, moreover, and despised, and literally cuffed by the female who outreached him—­this was too much; all the worst passions within him were fired, and he swore in his own heart a deep and blasphemous oath, that Biddy Nulty never should part from him unless as a degraded girl.

The incident that we have just related happened so quickly that Flanagan’ had not time to reply a single word, and Biddy followed up her imprecation by a powerful effort to release herself.

“Let me home this minnit, you villin,” she continued; “now that you find yourself on the wrong scent—­boys, don’t hould me, nor back that ruffin in his villany.”

“Hould her like hell,” said Bartle, “an’ tie her up wanst more; we’ll gag you, too, my lady—­ay, will we.  Take away your name—­I’ll take care you’ll carry shame upon your face from this night to the hour of your death.  Characther indeed!—­ho, by the crass I’ll lave you that little of that will go far wid you.”

“May be not,” replied Biddy; “the same God that disappointed you in hangin’ Connor O’Donovan—­”

“Damn you,” said he, “take that;” and as he spoke he struck the poor girl a heavy blow in the cheek, which cut her deeply, and for a short time rendered her speechless.