“Saints in glory!” he exclaimed again, “isn’t this blessed doins an the sacred day that’s in it! that a poor helpless ould man like me can’t come to get somethin’ to take away this misfortunit touch o’ configuration that I’m afflicted wid in cowld weather—­that I can’t take a little sup of the only thing that I cures me—­widout your ructions and battles!  You came here to make pace between two dacent men’s childher, an’ you’re as bad, if not worse, yourselves!—­Oh, wurrah dheelish, what’s this!  I’m in downright agony!  Oh, murdher sheery!  Has none o’ yez a hand to thry if there’s e’er a dhrop of relief in that bottle? or am I to die all out, in the face o’ the world, for want of a sup o’ somethin’ to warm me?”

“Darby, thry the horn,” said M’Kenna.

“Here, Darby,” said one of them, “dhrink this off, an’ my life for yours, it’ll warm you to the marrow!”

“Och, musha, but I wanted it badly,” replied Darby, swallowing it at once; “it’s the only thing that does me good when I’m this way. Deah Graslhias! Oxis Doxis Glorioxis.  Amin!”

“I think,” said M’Kenna, “that what’s in the horn’s far afore it.”

“Oh, thin, you thoughtless crathur, if you knew somethin’ I hard about you a while ago, you’d think otherwise.  But, indeed, it’s thrue for you; I’m sure I’d be sarry to compare what’s in it to anything o’ the kind I tuck.  Deah Grasthias!  Throth, I’m asier now a great dale nor I was.”

“Will you take another sup, Darby?” inquired the young fellow in whose hands the bottle was now nearly empty; there’s jist about another glass.”

“Indeed, an’ I ‘will, avillish; an’ sure you’ll have my blessin’ for it, an’ barrin’ the priest’s own, you couldn’t have a more luckier one—­blessed be God for it—­sure that’s well known.  In throth, they never came to ill that had it, an’ never did good that got my curse!  Hoop! do you hear how that rises the wind off o’ my stomach!  Houp!—­Deah Grasthias for that!”

“How did you larn all the prayers an’ charms you have, Darby?” inquired the bottle-holder.

“It would take me too long to tell you that, avillish!  But, childher, now that you’re all together, make it up wid one another.  Aren’t you all frinds an’ brothers, sworn brothers, an’ why would you be fightin’ among other?  Misther Costigan, give me your hand; sure I heard a thrifle o’ what you were sayin’ while I was suckin’ my dudeen at the fire widout.  Come here, Misther Connell.  Now, before the saints in glory, I lay my bitter curse an him that refuses to shake hands wid his inimy.  There now—­I’m proud to see it.  Mike, avourneen, come here—­Frank M’Kenna, gustho (* come hither), walk over here; my bitther heart’s curse upon of yez, if you don’t make up all quarrels this minit!  Are you willin, Mike lieillaghan?”

“I have no objection in life,” replied Mike, “if he’ll say that Peggy Gartland won’t be put to any more throuble through his manes.”