“Yes, that is my name—­what is yours?”

“That doesn’t matther,” replied the voice, “stand aside here, and be quiet as you value your life.”

M’Carthy thought at the moment that he heard the noise of many feet, as it were in the distance.

“You will not be safe,” said the voice, “if you refuse to take my advice;” and as he spoke he partly forced M’Carthy over to the side of the road where they both stood invisible from the darkness of the night, as well as from the shelter of a large whitethorn branch, which would, even in daylight, almost have concealed them from view.  In a few minutes, a large body of people passed them with that tread which always characterizes the motions of undisciplined men.  There was scarcely a word among them, but M’Carthy felt that, knowing them as he did to be peasants, there was something dreadful in the silence which they maintained so strictly.  He could not avoid associating their movements and designs with some act of violence and bloodshed, that was about to add horror to the impenetrable gloom of night, whose darkness, perhaps, they were about to light up with the roof-tree of some unsuspecting household, ignorant of the fiery fate that was then so near them.

Several hundreds must have passed, and when the last sounds of their tread had died away, M’Carthy and his companion left their hiding-place, when the latter addressed him as follows:—­

“Now, Mr. M’Carthy, I wish you to understand that you are wid a friend—­mark my words—­avoid the man they call Buck English, for of all men livin’ he hates you the most; and listen, whenever you come to this country don’t stop in procthor Purcel’s, otherwise you may draw down ruin and destruction upon him and his; and, if I’m not mistaken, you’re the last man livin’ who would wish to do that.”

“By the way,” asked M’Carthy, “who is Buck English?”

“I don’t know,” replied the stranger, “nor do I know any one that does.”

“And may I not ask who you are yourself?”

“No—­for I’ve good raisons for not telling you.  Good-night, and mark my words—­avoid that man, for I know he would give a good deal to sit over your coffin—­and you in it.”

We shall now allow M’Carthy to proceed to his friend’s house, which he reached without any further adventure, and ask the reader to accompany the stranger, who in a few minutes overtook the body we have described, to which he belonged.  They proceeded in the same way, still maintaining a silence that was fearful and ominous, for about a mile and a half.  Whilst proceeding, they met several persons on the road, every one of whom they stopped and interrogated as to his name and residence, after which they allowed them to pass on.

“Why do they! stop and examine the people they meet?” whispered one of them a young lad about nineteen—­to him who had just warned McCarthy.

“Why,” said the other, “is it possible you don’t know that?  It’s aisy seen you’re but young in the business yet.”