execute.  It is surprising to think of the powerful expression which a moment of intense interest or great danger is capable of giving to the eye, the features and the slightest actions, especially in those whose station in society does not require them to constrain nature, by the force of social courtesies, into habits that conceal their natural emotions.  None of the standing group spoke; but as each of them wrung my hand in silence, his eye was fixed on mine, with an expression of drunken confidence and secrecy, and an insolent determination not to be gainsaid without peril.  If looks could be translated with certainty, they seemed to say, “We are bound upon a project of vengeance, and if you do not join us, remember we can revenge.”  Along with this grasp, they did not forget to remind me of the common bond by which we were united, for each man gave me the secret grip of Ribbonism in a manner that made the joints of my fingers ache for some minutes afterwards.

There was one present, however—­the highest in authority—­whose actions and demeanor were calm and unexcited.  He seemed to labor under no unusual influence whatever, but evinced a serenity so placid and philosophical, that I attributed the silence of the sitting group, and the restraint which curbed in the outbreaking passions of those who stood, entirely to his presence.  He was a schoolmaster, who taught his daily school in that chapel, and acted also on Sunday, in the capacity of clerk to the priest—­an excellent and amiable old man, who knew little of his illegal connections and atrocious conduct.

When the ceremonies of brotherly recognition and friendship were past, the Captain (by which title I shall designate the last-mentioned person) stooped, and, raising a jar of whiskey on the corner of the altar, held a wineglass to its neck, which he filled, and with a calm nod handed it to me to drink.  I shrank back, with an instinctive horror, at the profaneness of such an act, in the house, and on the altar of God, and peremptorily refused to taste the proffered I draught.  He smiled mildly at what he considered my superstition, and added quietly, and in a low voice, “You’ll be wantin’ it I’m thinkin’, afther the wettin’ you got.”

“Wet or dry,” said I—­

“Stop, man!” he replied, in the same tone; “spake low.  But why wouldn’t you take the whiskey?  Sure there’s as holy people to the fore as you:  didn’t they all take it?  An’ I wish we may never do worse nor dhrink a harmless glass o’ whiskey, to keep the cowld out, any way.”

“Well,” said I, “I’ll jist trust to God and the consequences, for the cowld, Paddy, ma bouchal; but a blessed dhrop of it won’t be crossin’ my lips, avick; so no more ghostlier about it;—­dhrink it yourself if you like.  Maybe you want it as much as I do; wherein I’ve the patthern of a good big-coat upon me, so thick, your sowl, that if it was rainin’ bullocks, a dhrop wouldn’t get undher the nap of it.”