“So, Sharpe, the fool Rimon made such a devil of a fight (the infernal old scoundrel)—­and took the gun.”

“Why, Captain Phil, if he hasn’t the strength of ten men, I’ll never manoeuvre on parade while I live—­he’s a bloody rascal.”

“(A double distilled old scoundrel, and I wish the devil had him,)—­he’s a bad bird, Sharpe, fool and all as he is, there’s no doubt of that.  What did the priest do?”

“Why, your honor, I can’t say that he took much part in it, barrin’ once that he went between us and the woman.”

“He had no right to do that—­(the blaspheming old vagabond,)—­none at all, Sharpe, and he ought to be prosecuted.”

“He ought, Captain, and will, I hope.”

“But then, Shaj-pe, if we swing Harman it will be enough, for Harman—­(he’ll fiz for it, and that soon I hope)—­is another bad bird.”

“Oh, devil a worse, Captain, but even if he escapes us now, we’ll manage him yet.”

They now came to a turn in the road, and found themselves at a bridge, a little beyond which two roads met.  On approaching, they observed an old woman sitting on a large stone that lay a little beyond the arch.  She was meagrely and poorly dressed, had no cap on, her gray locks were only bound by a red ribbon that encircled her head, but did not confine her hair, which floated in large masses about her shoulders, a circumstance that added to the startling vehemence of character that appeared in her face, and gave to her whole person an expression which could not be overlooked.  When they had come up to where she sat, and were about to pass without further notice, she started up, and with steps surprisingly rapid, and full of energy, seized upon.  Phil’s bridle.

“Well!” she exclaimed, “I saw you going, and I see you coming, but you cannot tell me that he is dead.  No, the death damp of his blaspheming carcase is not yet on the air, because if it was,” and she turned her nose against the wind, like a hound, “I would snuff it.  No, no; he is not gone, but he will soon go, and what a catalogue of crimes will follow after him!  The man’s conscience is a gaol where every thought and wish of his guilty life and godless heart is a felon; and the blackest calendar that ever was spread before God was his.  Oh!  I wonder do the chains in his conscience rattle? they do, but his ears are deaf, and he doesn’t hear them; but he will, and feel them too, yet.”

Phil, who had got alarmed at the extraordinary energy of her manner, as well as of her language, said, “what do you want, and who are you speaking of?”

“Who am I speaking of? who should I be speaking of but of old Deaker, the blasphemer?—­and who am I speaking to but the son of the ungodly villain who threatened to horsewhip the mother that bore him.  Do you know me now?”

“Let go my bridle,” exclaimed Phil, “let go my bridle, you old faggot, or upon my honor and soul I’ll give you a cut of my whip.”