The sullen face of the bailiff half lighted up with a cynical grin of expectation, for he saw that both ladies were game, and looked for a spirited encounter.  But Dirty Davy spoiled all by interposing his person, and arresting the pursuit of his client, and delivering a wheezy expostulation close in her ear.

’’Tis a strange thing if I can’t do what I will with my own—­fine laws, i’faith!’

’I only tell you, Madam, and if you do, it may embarrass us mightily by-and-by.’

‘I’d wring her neck across the banister,’ murmured M. M.

‘An’ now, plase your ladyship, will I bring your sarvice to the ladies and gentlemen down in the town, for ‘tis there I’m going next,’ said Moggy, popping in at the door, with a mock courtesy, and a pugnacious cock in her eye, and a look altogether so provoking and warlike as almost tempted the bailiff at the door to clap her on the back, and cry, had he spoken Latin, macte virtute puer!

‘Catch the slut.  You sha’n’t budge—­not a foot—­hold her,’ cried M. M. to the bailiff.

‘Baugh!’ was his answer.

‘See, now,’ said Davy, ’Madam Nutter’s not serious—­you’re not, Ma’am?  We don’t detain you, mind.  The door’s open.  There’s no false imprisonment or duress, mind ye, thanking you all the same, Miss, for your offer.  We won’t detain you, ah, ah.  No, I thank you.  Chalk the road for the young lady, Mr. Redmond.’

And Davy fell to whisper energetically again in M. M.’s ear.

And Moggy disappeared.  Straight down to the town she went, and to the friendly Dr. Toole’s house, but he was not expected home from Dublin till morning.  Then she had thoughts of going to the barrack, and applying for a company of soldiers, with a cannon, if necessary, to retake the Mills.  Then she bethought her o’ good Dr. Walsingham, but he was too simple to cope with such seasoned rogues.  General Chattesworth was too far away, and not quite the man either, no more than Colonel Stafford; and the young beaux, ’them captains, and the like, ’id only be funnin’ me, and knows nothing of law business.’  So she pitched upon Father Roach.

CHAPTER LXXVII.

IN WHICH IRISH MELODY PREVAILS.

Now, Father Roach’s domicile was the first house in the Chapel-lane, which consisted altogether of two, not being very long.  It showed a hall-door, painted green—­the national hue—­which enclosed, I’m happy to say, not a few of the national virtues, chief among which reigned hospitality.  As Moggy turned the corner, and got out of the cold wind under its friendly shelter, she heard a stentorian voice, accompanied by the mellifluous drone of a bagpipe, concluding in a highly decorative style the last verse of the ‘Colleen Rue.’