“Well,” replied M’Carthy, “at all events you are a brother Irishman, and I will put confidence in you; come, I am ready to accompany you.”

“In that case, then, you must suffer me to blacken your face, and for fear your shoot-in’ jacket might betray you, I’ll put this shirt over it.”

He then pulled out an old piece of crumpled paper that contained a mixture of lampblack and grease, with which he besmeared his whole face, from his neck to the roots of his hair, after which he stripped the shirt he wore outside his clothes, and in about two or three minutes completely metamorphosed our friend M’Carthy into a thorough-looking Whiteboy.

“Come along now,” said he, “and folly me; but even as it is, and in spite of your disguise, we must take the lonesomest way to the only place I think you’ll be safe in.”

“I am altogether in your hands,” replied M’Carthy, “and shall act as you wish.”

They then proceeded across the country for about two miles, keeping up towards the mountainous district, after which they made a turn and entered a deep valley, in whose lowest extremity stood a long, low house.

“Now,” said the stranger, “before we go in here, remember what I’m goin’ to say to’ you.  If any one—­I mean a Whiteboy,”—­here M’Carthy started, struck by the peculiarity of the pronunciation—­a circumstance which by no means strengthened his sense, of security—­“if any of them should come across you and ask you for the pass, here it is. What’s the hour? Answer—­Very near the right one.  Isn’t it come yet? Answer—­The hour is come, but not the man.  When will he come? Answer—­He is within sight.”  He repeated these words three or four times, after which he and M’Carthy entered the house.

“God save all here!” said the guide.

“God save you kindly, boys.”

“Mrs. Cassidy,” he continued, “here’s poor fellow on his keepin’ for tithe business and although you don’t know me, I know you well enough to be sartin that you’ll give this daicent boy a toss in a bed till daybreak—­an’ a mouthful to ate if he should want it.”

“Troth an’ I will, sir; isn’t one o’ my poor boys in Lisnagola goal for the same tithes—­bad luck to them—­that is for batin’ one of the vagabonds that came to collect them.  Troth he’ll have the best bed in my house.”

“And listen, Mrs. Cassidy; if any of us should happen to come here to-night—­although I don’t think it’s likely they will, still it’s hard to say, for the country’s alive with with them—­if any of them should come here, don’t let them know that this poor boy is in the house—­do you mind?”

“Ah, then, it would be a bad day or night either I wouldn’t.”

“Will you have anything to ate or dhrink,” asked the guide of M’Carthy..

“Nothing,” replied the other; “I only wish to get to bed.”

“Come, then,” said the colossal Whiteboy, “I’ll show you where you’re to lie.”