“Cannie,” said the proctor, somewhat sternly, “I’ve never heard you give expression to such sentiments before, and I hope I shall never again.  No honest man would excuse or tamper with murder or murderers.  No more of this, Cannie, or you will lose my good opinion, although perhaps you would think that no great loss.”

“Throth, I know I was wrong to spake as I did, sir, bad cess to me, but I was, an’ as for your good opinion, Misther Purcel, and the good of all your family too, devil a man livin’ ’ud go further to gain it, and to keep it when he had it than I would; now, bad cess to the one.”

Whilst this dialogue was proceeding between the pedlar and the proctor.  Dr. Turbot, in a state of indescribable alarm, was relating the attempted assassination to his curate inside.  The amazement of the latter gentleman, who was perfectly aware of the turbulent state of the country, by no means kept pace with the alarm of his rector.  He requested of the latter, that should he see Mrs. Temple, he would make no allusions to the circumstance, especially as she was at the period in question not far from her confinement, and it was impossible to say what unpleasant or dangerous effects an abrupt mention of so dreadful a circumstance might have upon her.

In a few minutes Purcel and his patron were on their way to Longshot Lodge, the residence of the proctor.  At the solicitation of the parson, however, they avoided the direct line of road, and reached home by one that was much more circuitous, and as the latter thought also more safe.  Here, after Waiting for the arrival of the mail coach, which he resolved to meet on its way to the metropolis, he partook of a lunch, which, even to his voluptuous palate, was one that he could not but admit to be excellent.  He received four hundred pounds from the proctor, for which he merely gave him a note of hand, and in a short time was on his way to the metropolis.

CHAPTER VI.—­Unexpected Generosity—­A False Alarm.

At this period, notwithstanding the circumstances which we have just related—­and they were severe enough—­the distress of the Protestant clergy of Ireland was just only beginning to set in.  It had not, as yet, however, assumed anything like that formidable shape in which it subsequently appeared.  To any scourge so dreadful, no class in the educated and higher ranks of society had been, within the records of historical recollection, ever before subjected.  Still, like a malignant malady, even its first symptoms were severe, and indicative of the sufferings by which, with such dreadful certainty, they were followed.

On that day, and at the very moment when the mysterious attempt at assassination,which we have recorded, was made, Dr. Turbot’s worthy curate, on returning home from the neighboring village of Lisnagola, was, notwithstanding great reluctance on his part, forced into the following conversation with his lovely but dejected wife: