On arriving in town the passengers, as is usual, betook themselves to their respective destinations.  Father M’Mahon, with his small bundle under his arm, was about to go to the Brazen Head Tavern, when he found himself tapped on the shoulder by our friend Darby, who now held a pistol in his hand, and said: 

“There are eight of us, Mr. Finnerty, and it is useless to shy Abraham.  You’re bagged at last, so come off quietly to the office.”

“I don’t understand you,” replied the priest, who certainly felt surprised at seeing himself surrounded by so many constables, for it was impossible any longer to mistake them.  “What do you mean, my friend? or who do you suppose me to be?”

The constable gave him a knowing wink, adding with as knowing an air—­“It’s no go here, my lad—­safe’s the word.  Tramp for the office, or we’ll clap on the wrist-buttons.  We know you’re a shy cock, Mr. Finnerty, and rather modest, too—­that’s the cut.  Simpson, keep the right arm fast, and, you, Gamble, the left, whilst we bring up the rear.  In the meantime, before he proceeds a step, I, as senior, will take the liberty to—­just—­see—­what—­is—­here,” whilst, suiting the word to the action, he first drew a pistol from the left pocket, and immediately after another from the right, and—­shades of Freney and O’Hanlon!—­the redoubtable pocket-book of Sir Thomas Gourlay, each and all marked not only with his crest, but his name and title at full length.

The priest was not at a moment’s loss how to act.  Perceiving their mistake as to his identity, and feeling the force of appearances against him, he desired to be conducted at once to the office.  There he knew he could think more calmly upon the steps necessary to his liberation than he could in a crowd which was enlarging every moment, on its being understood that Finnerty, the celebrated highwayman, had been at length taken.  Not that the crowd gave expression to any feeling or ebullition that was at all unfriendly to him.  So far from that, it gathered round him with strong expressions of sympathy and compassion for his unhappy fate.  Many were the anecdotes reported to each other by the spectators of his humanity—­his charity—­his benevolence to the poor; and, above all, of his intrepidity and courage; for it may be observed here—­and we leave moralists, metaphysicians, and political economists to draw whatever inferences they please from the fact—­but fact it is—­that in no instance is any man who has violated the law taken up publicly, on Irish ground, whether in town or country, that the people do not uniformly express the warmest sympathy for him, and a strong manifestation of enmity against his captors.  Whether this may be interpreted favorably or otherwise of our countrymen, we shall not undertake to determine.  As Sir Roger de Coverly said, perhaps much might be advanced on both sides.