He had not gone a perch when the click of a pistol was heard, but no report; the fact having been, that the pistol missed fire, and did not go off.

“D—­n your blood!” exclaimed the “friend” to the other, “fire, and don’t let him escape;” the ruffian did so when click No. 2 was heard, but as before no report.

“Aisy,” said the fellow who had fired first, pulling out a long Spanish dagger; “an inch or two of this is as safe as a bullet, any day; and by japers he won’t escape it.”  He sprang after M’Carthy as he spoke, followed by his companion.  The third man stepped a pace or two to the right, and levelling a long double-barrelled pistol, deliberately fired, when McCarthy’s first pursuer fell; the second man, however, with that remarkable, quickness of wit which characterizes the Irish, in their outrages as well as in their pastimes, suddenly stooped, and taking the dreadful dagger out of the hands of the wounded man, continued the pursuit bounding after his foe with a spirit of vengeance and ferocity, now raised to the highest pitch.  The stranger, seeing that M’Carthy was still in equal danger if not in still greater, for the now infuriated ruffian was gaining upon him, once more levelled his pistol—­fired—­and, as before, down came the intended assassin.  He himself then sprang forward, as if in pursuit of M’Carthy, exclaiming, “Hell and fury, why did yez keep between me and him—­I think he’s hit; give me that dagger, and I’ll go bail I’ll make his body soon put six inches of it out of sight,” and having uttered, these words, he rushed forward, as if in pursuit of their victim.

After he had left them, the following brief dialogue took place between these two worthies:—­

“Hourigan, blazes to me but I’m shot.”

“Hell’s perdition to the unlucky villain—­so am I—­where are you shot, Mark?”

“By japers, the blood’s pourin’ out from me in the thigh, an’ I’m afeard I’m done for—­blast his unlucky hand, the villain; I wisht I had my dagger in him.  Where are you shot, Darby?”

“Oh, vo—­vo—­on the right hip—­but—­oh, sweet Jasus, what will become of us if we’re to die here—­may the devil clap his cruibs (* Talons; claws) in the sowl of him that done it!”

“Amin, I pray the blessed Saviour this night!  Do you think, Darby, he was a traitor, and done it a purpose?”

“Oh, mavrone, oh!—­if I die widout the priest, what ‘ud become o’ me, an’ all the sins I have to answer?”

“I say, was the villain a traitor, do you think?”

“Mavrone, oh!—­blessed Lord forgive me—­well—­I can hardly think so—­didn’t he volunteer along wid yourself an’ myself—­oh, sweet Jasus! what a life I lead—­oh, Mark Ratigan, Mark Ratigan, what will become o’ me!—–­I swore away the lives of two innocent men—­I proved three alibis for three of as black villains as ever stretched a rope or charged a blunderbush!  ’Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come’—­oh, Lord! forbid that yet a while! could you join in a Leadhan wurrah?”