It would be idle to attempt anything like a description of M’Carthy’s feelings, upon such an occasion as this.  It is sufficient to say, that he almost gave himself up for lost, and began to believe, for the first time in his life, that there is such a thing as fate.  Here had his life been already saved once to-night, but scarcely had he escaped when he is met by a person evidently disguised, but by whose language he is all but made certain that he is a man full of mystery, and who besides has expressed strong enmity against him.  This person, with a case of pistols in his breast, compels him, as it were, to put himself under his protection; and he conducts him into a remote isolated shebeen-house, where, no doubt, there is a meeting of Whiteboys every night in the week.  The M’Carthy spirit is, proverbially, brave and intrepid, but we are bound to say, that notwithstanding its hereditary intrepidity, our young friend would have given the wealth of Europe to have found himself at that moment one single mile away from the bed on which he lay.  His best policy was now to affect sleep, and he did so with an apparent reality borrowed from desperation.

“Hallo!” exclaimed those who bore the candle, on looking at the bed, “who the devil and Jack Robinson have we got here?  Aisy, boys—­here’s some blessed clip or other fast asleep:  lay down poor Lanty on the ground till we see who this.  Call Molly Cassidy; here, Molly, who the dickens is this chap asleep?”

Molly immediately made her appearance.

“Troth I dunna who he is,” she replied; “he’s some poor boy on his keepin’, about tithes, tha’ He brought here to-night.”

“That’s a cursed lie, Molly; wid’ many respects to you, He couldn’t a’ been here to-night.”

“Thank you, sir, whoever you are; but I tell you it’s no lie; and he was here, and left that boy wid me, desirin’ me to let him come to no injury, for that—­” and this was an addition of her own, “there was hundreds offered for the takin’ of him.”

“Why, what did he do, did you hear?”

“He whispered to me,” she replied, in a low voice, but loud enough for M’Carthy to hear, “that he shot a tithe-proctor.”

“We’ll see what he’s made of, though,” said one of them; “and, at all events, we’d act very shabbily if we didn’t give him a share af what’s goin’; but aisy, boys,” he added, “take care—­ay! aisy, I say, safe’s the word; who knows but he’s a spy in disguise, and, in that case, we’ll have a different card to play.  Hallo! neighbor,” he exclaimed, giving M’Carthy a shove, who started up and looked about him with admirable tact.

“What—­what—­eh—­what’s this? who are you all? what are you about?” he asked, and as he spoke, he sprung to his feet.  “What’s this?” he exclaimed again.  “Sweet Jasus! is this Fagan the tithe-proctor that I shot? eh—­or are you—­stay—­no—­ah, no—­not the polis.  Oh, Lord, but I’m relieved; I thought you were polis, but I see by your faces that I’m safe, at last—­I hope so.”