A third man came in.  “Well, Tom, you’re not coming to plead poverty, I hope?”

The man looked around him with peculiar intelligence.  “Are we safe?” he asked; “and may I spake widout danger?”

“You may, Duggan.”

“Well, then, I came to say that I’ll call over to-morrow evenin’ and pay it, but I daren’t now.”

“Why so, Tom?”

“Bekaise the most of us all have the tithe in our pockets, but as a proof that we did not pay it, we will, every man of us, be obliged to show it before we go home.  I might pay it now, Mr. Purcel; but then, if I did, it’ very likely I’d be a corpse before this day week.  Sich is the state that things ha’ come to; and how it’ll end, God only knows.  At any rate, I’ll slip over afther dusk to-morrow evenin’ and pay; but as you hope for mercy, and don’t wish to see me taken from my wife and childre’, don’t breathe a syllable of it to man or mortual.”

“I shall not, indeed, Tom,” replied Purcel, “but I really did not think that matters were altogether so bad as you describe them.  The people are infatuated, and will only draw the vengeance of the law upon their heads.  They will suffer, as they always do by their own misconduct and madness.”

Duggan had scarcely withdrawn, when our old friend, Darby Hourigan, thrust in his hateful and murderous-looking countenance.  “God save you, Misther John.”

“God save you kindly, Misther Hourigan.”

“Isn’t it glorious weather for the saison, sir?”

“I have seen better and I have seen worse, Mr. Hourigan; but Darby, passing the weather by, which neither you nor I can mend, allow me to say that I hope you are not coming here for the twentieth time to palm us off about the tithe.”

“Troth, then, and, Mr. John; I can’t afford to pay tide—­I’m a poor man, sir; and, as it happens that I never trouble the parson in religious matthers, I don’t see what right the parson has to trouble me for my money.”

“Ah! you have got the cant, I see.  You have been tutored.”

“I have got the truth, sir.”

“Ay, but have you got the tithe, sir? for I do assure you, Mr. Hourigan, that it is not your logic, but your money I want.”

“Begad, sir, and I’m afeard you’ll be forced to put up wid my logic this time, too.  You can’t take more from the cat than her skin, you know.”

There was an atrocious and sneering spirit, not only in this ruffian’s manner, but in the tones of his voice, that was calculated to overcome human patience.

“Darby, we have let you run a long time, but I now tell you, there’s an end of our forbearance so far as you are concerned.  If you were not able to pay I could feel for you, put we know, and all the world knows, that you are one of the most comfortable and independent men in the parish.  Darby, you in short are a d—­d rogue, and what is worse, a treacherous and mischief-makin scoundrel.  I am aware of the language you use against our whole family, whom you blacken whenever you have an opportunity of doing so.  You are not only dishonest but ungrateful, sirrah.”