This, however, was not listened to.  The father would hear of no apology for his son’s cowardice but an instant challenge.  Either that or to be driven from his father’s roof the only alternatives left him.

“Come out here,” said the old man, for the son had not left his humble bed-room, “an’ in presence of them that you have brought to shame and disgrace, take the only plan that s left to you, an’ send him a challenge.”

“Father,” said the young man, “I have too much of your own blood in me to be afraid of any man—­but for all that, I neither will nor can fight Meehaul Neil.”

“Very well,” said the father, bitterly, “that’s enough. Dher Manim, Oonagh, you’re a guilty woman; that boy’s no son of mine.  If he had my blood in him, he couldn’t act as he did.  Here, you intherloper, the door’s open for you; go out of it, an’ let me never see the branded face of you while you live.”  The groans of the son were audible from his bed-room.

“I will go, father,” he replied, “an’ I hope the day will come when you’ll all change your opinion of me.  I can’t, however, stir out till I send a message a mile or so out of town.”

The old man in the mean time, wept as if his son had been dead; his tears, however, were not those of sorrow, but of shame and indignation.

“How can I help it,” he exclaimed, “when I think of the way that the Neils will clap their wings and crow over us!  If it was from any other family he tuck it so inanely, I wouldn’t care so much; but from them!  Oh, Chiernah! it’s too bad!  Turn out, you villain!”

A charge of deeper disgrace, however, awaited the unhappy young man.  The last harsh words of the father had scarcely been uttered, when three constables came in, and inquired if his son were at home.

“He is at home,” said the father, with tears in his eyes, “and I never thought he would bring the blush to my face as he did by his conduct last night.”

“I am sorry,” said the principal of them, “for what has happened, both on your account and his.  Do you know this hat?”

“I do know it,” replied the old man; “it belongs to John.  Come out here,” said he, “here’s Tom Breen wid your hat.”

The son left his room, and it was evident from his appearance that he had not undressed at all during the night.  The constables immediately observed these circumstances, which they did not fail to interpret to his disadvantage.

“Here is your hat,” said the man who bore it; “one would think you were travelin’ all night, by your looks.”

The son thanked him for his civility, got clean stockings, and after arranging his dress, said to his father—­

“I’m now ready to go, father, an’ as I can’t do what you want me to do, there’s nothing for me but to leave the country for a while.”

“He acknowledged it himself,” said the father, turning to Breen; “an’ in that case, how could I let the son that shamed me live undher my roof?”