When the stranger had complied with this last hint, “Well, gentlemen,” said he, “as I am rather fatigued, will you excuse me for the position I am about to occupy, which is simply to stretch myself along the hob here, with my head upon the straw hassoch? and if you have no objection to that, I will relate the story.”

To this, of course, a general assent was given.  When he was stretched completely at his ease—­

“Well, upon my veracity,” observed Father Peter, “the gentleman’s supernaturally long.”

“Yes, Pether,” replied Father Ned, “but observe his position—­Polysyllaba cuncta supina, as Psorody says.—­Arrah, salvation to me but you’re a dull man, afther all!—­but we’re interrupting the gentleman.  Sir, go on, if you please, with your story.”

“Give me a few minutes,” said he, “until I recollect the particulars.”

He accordingly continued quiescent for two or three minutes more, apparently arranging the materials of his intended narration, and then commenced to gratify the eager expectations of his auditory, by emitting those nasal enunciations which are the usual accompaniments of sleep!

“Why, bad luck to the morsel of ’im but’s asleep,” said Ned; “Lord pardon me for swearin’ in your Reverence’s presence.”

“That’s certainly the language of a sleeping man,” replied Father Ned, “but there might have been a little more respect than all that snoring comes to.  Your health, boys.”

The stranger had now wound up his nasal organ to a high pitch, after which he commenced again with somewhat of a lower and finer tone.

“He’s beginning a new paragraph,” observed Father Peter with a smile at the joke.

“Not at all,” said Father Ned, “he’s turning the tune; don’t you perceive that he’s snoring ‘God save the King,’ in the key of bass relievo?”

“I’m no judge of instrumental music, as you are,” said the curate, “but I think it’s liker the ‘Dead March of Saul,’ than ‘God save the King;’ however, if you be right, the gentleman certainly snores in a truly loyal strain.”

“That,” said little M’Roarkin, “is liker the Swine’s melody, or the Bedfordshire hornpipe—­he—­he—­he!”

“The poor gintleman’s tired,” observed Nancy, “afther a hard day’s thravelling.”

“I dare say he is,” said Father Ned, in the sincere hospitality of his country; “at all events, take care of him, Nancy, he’s a stranger, and get the best supper you can for him—­he appears to be a truly respectable and well-bred man.”

“I think,” said M’Kinley, with a comical grin, “you might know that by his high-flown manner of sleeping—­he snores very politely, and like a gentleman, all out.”

“Well done, Alick,” said the priest, laughing; “go home, boys, it’s near bed-time; Paddy, ma bouchal, are the horses ready?”

“They’ll be at the door in a jiffy, your Reverence,” said Paddy going out.

In the course of a few minutes, he returned, exclaiming, “Why, thin, is it thinkin’ to venthur out sich a night as it’s comin’ on yer Reverences would be? and it plashin’ as if it came out of methers!  Sure the life would be dhrownded out of both of ye, and yees might colch a faver into the bargain.”