“Boys,” said Purcel, “I have been in C------m this morning, and, I’m
sorry to say, there’s bad news abroad.”

“How is that, sir?” asked Alick,—­“no violence, I hope; although I wouldn’t feel surprised if there were; the country is getting into a bad state:  I think myself the people are mad, absolutely mad.”

“You both knew Matthew Murray,” he proceeded, “that lived down at Rathkeerin?”

“Certainly, father,” said John; “what about him?—­no harm, I hope?”

“He was murdered in his own house last night,” replied his father; “but it’s some consolation that one of the murdering villains is in custody.”

“That is bad business, certainly,” replied John; “in fact, it’s dreadful.”

“It is dreadful,” said the father; “but the truth is, we must have the country, at least this part of it, proclaimed, and martial law established;—­damn the murdering scoundrels, nothing else is fit for them.  We must carry arms, boys, in future; and by d—­n, the first man I see looking at me suspiciously, especially from behind a hedge, I’ll shoot him.  As a tithe-proctor I could do so without much risk.”

“Not, father,” said Alick, “until he should first offer, or make an attempt at violence.”

“I would not, in the present state of the country, wait for it,” replied the determined and now indignant proctor; “if I saw him watch me with arms in his hands, or any dangerous weapon about his person, by d—­n I’d put a bullet through him, with no more remorse than I would through a dog, and, if the animal were a good one, I think he would be the greater public loss of the two.”

Just at this moment, the females of the family, who had been giving breakfast to a number of poor destitute creatures, made their appearance.

“Where have you all been?” asked Mrs. Purcel, addressing her husband and sons; “here have we been waiting breakfast for you during the last half-hour, and finding you were none of you within, we went and gave these poor creatures without something to eat.”

“Ay,” responded the angry proctor, “and it’s not unlikely that the son, or husband, or brother of some of them may take a slap at me or at one of our sons, from behind a hedge, before these long nights pass off.  D—­n me, but it’s throwing pearls before swine, to show them either kindness or charity.”

“Something has angered you, papa,” said Mary; “I hope you have heard nothing unpleasant; I am not very timid, but when a whole country is in such a state of disturbance, one may entertain a reasonable apprehension, certainly.”

“Why, I am angry, Mary,” replied her father; “there’s as decent and quiet, but, at the same time, as spirited a man as there ever was in the barony, murdered this morning—­Mat Murray of Rathkeerin; however, as I said, it’s a great consolation that one of the murderers is in custody.”

“And who is the wretch, papa?” asked Julia.

“One that nobody ever could have suspected for such an act,” replied Purcel—­“a son of one of our own tenants—­honest Michael Devlin’s son—­James.”