“I wish I could return the compliment, Terry.  But your cracked skull is by no means a pleasing spectacle.  How came you by the hurt, eh?”

“How did I come by it?—­that’s a nate question.  Why, honestly enouch.  It was lent me by a countryman o’ mine; but I paid him back in his own coin—­ha! ha!”

“A countryman of yours, Terry?”

“Ay, and a noble one, too, Quilt—­more’s the pity!  You’ve heard of the Marquis of Slaughterford, belike?”

“Of course; who has not?  He’s the leader of the Mohocks, the general of the Scourers, the prince of rakes, the friend of the surgeons and glaziers, the terror of your tribe, and the idol of the girls!”

“That’s him to a hair?” cried Terence, rapturously.  “Och! he’s a broth of a boy!”

“Why, I thought he’d broken your head, Terry?”

“Phooh! that’s nothing?  A piece o’ plaster’ll set all to rights; and Terry O’Flaherty’s not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack.  Besides, didn’t I tell you that I giv’ him as good as he brought—­and better!  I jist touched him with my ‘Evenin’ Star,’ as I call this shillelah,” said the watchman, flourishing an immense bludgeon, the knob of which appeared to be loaded with lead, “and, by Saint Patrick! down he cum’d like a bullock.”

“Zounds!” exclaimed Quilt, “did you kill him?”

“Not quite,” replied Terence, laughing; “but I brought him to his senses.”

“By depriving him of ’em, eh!  But I’m sorry you hurt his lordship, Terry.  Young noblemen ought to be indulged in their frolics.  If they do, now and then, run away with a knocker, paint a sign, beat the watch, or huff a magistrate, they pay for their pastime, and that’s sufficient.  What more could any reasonable man—­especially a watchman—­desire?  Besides, the Marquis, is a devilish fine fellow, and a particular friend of mine.  There’s not his peer among the peerage.”

“Och! if he’s a friend o’ yours, my dear joy, there’s no more to be said; and right sorry am I, I struck him.  But, bloodan’-’ouns! man, if ould Nick himself were to hit me a blow, I’d be afther givin’ him another.”

“Well, well—­wait awhile,” returned Quilt; “his lordship won’t forget you.  He’s as generous as he’s frolicsome.”

As he spoke, the door of the round-house was opened, and a stout man, with a lantern in his hand, presented himself at the threshold.

“There’s Sharples,” cried Quilt.

“Whist!” exclaimed Terence; “he elevates his glim.  By Jasus! he’s about to spake to us.”

“Gem’men o’ the votch!” cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, “my noble pris’ner—­ough! ough;—­the Markis o’ Slaughterford——­”

Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night.

“No Mohocks!  No Scourers!” cried the mob.

“Hear! hear!” vociferated Quilt.

“His lordship desires me to say—­ough! ough!”