“The mist is gone,” he observed, “from the mountains, and I suppose the boys will soon begin to come.”

“Throth, Frank,” she replied, “I hate these nightly meetin’s that you hould here—­all this plottin’ and plannin’ isn’t nor can’t be good.”

“You hate them! an’ who the ould diaoul cares whether you do or not?  I allow them this house to meet in, bekaise it’s large and far from the polis.  A house down in the country, where they might pop in on them, wouldn’t be so safe; here, however, no one would suspect them of meetin’, and from the way the house is situated, no one could come upon us widout bein’ known or seen.  You hate! that indeed!”

“An’ what do they meet for, Frank? if it’s a fair question!”

“It’s not a fair question, an’ you have no business to ax; still if you want to know, and if it can make you anything the wiser, you shall hear.  It’s to break a Millstone they meet.”

“To brake a millstone, inngh! Oh, sorra a word of that I believe.  Sure there’s no millstone here?—­if you want to break millstones you must go farther up—­to Carnmore, where they make them.  Sorra millstone’s here, I know.”

“You know—­oh, how much you know!  I tell you, there’s a great Millstone that covers and grinds the whole kingdom, or at least the greatest parts of it—­that’s the Millstone we want to brake, and that we will brake.”

“When did you hear from Mark Ratigan, or see him?”

“Mark Ratigan is snug and comfortable as a laborin’ boy wid Magistrate Driscol that’s in—­hem—­but listen to me, now if you should meet Mark anywhere down the country, you’re neither to call him Mark nor Ratigan, otherwise you may be the manes of hangin’ the poor boy.”

“Throth, an’ by all accounts, he’ll come to the gallows yet.”

“Well, and many a betther man did.  I expect him and Hourigan both here tonight.”

“An’ what name does he go by now?” she asked.

“By the name of Phil Hart; and remember when there’s any stranger present, you’re never to call him anything else—­but above all things, and upon the peril of your life, never call him Mark Ratigan.”

“And do you think,” replied his wife, “that I won’t take care not to do it?  But, Frank, tell me what was Mogue Moylan doin’ here the night before last?”

“Only to let me know that he and a Misthor M’Carthy—­a great friend of his and of two good creatures—­Magistrate Driscol and Procthor Purcel—­wor to come out shootin’ on the mountains to-day and to ax if I would prevent them.”

“An’ did you give them lave?” she inquired.

A very peculiar expression passed over the dark grim features of her husband.  “Did I give them lave?” he replied; “well, indeed, you may take your davy, I did.  Why would I refuse a dacent gintleman, and a friend of Mogue Moylan’s lave to shoot?  Poor dacent Mogue, too, that loves thruth and religion so well—­ha! ha! ha!—­whisht!—­here’s some one.”