‘Ordher the priest off the ground, Sorr,’ said O’Flaherty, lividly, to little Puddock, who was too busy with Mr. Mahony to hear him; and Roach had already transferred his pious offices to Nutter, who speedily flushed up and became, to all appearances, in his own way just as angry as O’Flaherty.

‘Lieutenant O’Flaherty, a word in your ear,’ once more droned the mellow voice of Father Roach; ’you’re a young man, my dear, and here’s Lieutenant Puddock by your side, a young man too; I’m as ould, my honeys, as the two of you put together, an’ I advise you, for your good—­don’t shed human blood—­don’t even draw your swords—­don’t, my darlins; don’t be led or said by them army-gentlemen, that’s always standin’ up for fightin’ because the leedies admire fightin’ men.  They’ll call you cowards, polthroons, curs, sneaks, turn-tails—­let them!’

‘There’s no standin’ this any longer, Puddock,’ said O’Flaherty, incensed indescribably by the odious names which his reverence was hypothetically accumulating; ‘if you want to see the fightin’, Father Roach——.’

‘Apage, Sathanas!’ murmured his reverence, pettishly, raising his plump, blue chin, and dropping his eyelids with a shake of the head, and waving the back of his fat, red hand gently towards the speaker.

‘In that case, stay here, an’ look your full, an’ welcome, only don’t make a noise; behave like a Christian, an’ hould your tongue; but if you really hate fightin’, as you say——­’

Having reached this point in his address, but intending a good deal more, O’Flaherty suddenly stopped short, drew himself into a stooping posture, with a flush and a strange distortion, and his eyes fastened upon Father Roach with an unearthly glare for nearly two minutes, and seized Puddock upon the upper part of his arm with so awful a grip, in his great bony hand, that the gallant little gentleman piped out in a flurry of anguish—­

‘O—­O—­O’Flaherty, Thir—­let go my arm, Thir.’

O’Flaherty drew a long breath, uttered a short, deep groan, and wiping the moisture from his red forehead, and resuming a perpendicular position, was evidently trying to recover the lost thread of his discourse.

‘There’th dethidedly thomething the matter with you, Thir,’ said Puddock, anxiously, sotto voce, while he worked his injured arm’s a little at the shoulder.

‘You may say that,’ said O’Flaherty, very dismally, and, perhaps, a little bitterly.

‘And—­and—­and—­you don’t mean to thay—­why—­eh?’ asked Puddock, uneasily.

’I tell you what, Puddock—­there’s no use in purtendin’—­the poison’s working—­that’s what’s the matter,’ returned poor O’Flaherty, in what romance writers call ‘a hissing whisper.’

‘Good—­merthiful—­graciouth—­Thir!’ ejaculated poor little Puddock, in a panic, and gazing up into the brawny fireworker’s face with a pallid fascination; indeed they both looked unpleasantly unlike the popular conception of heroes on the eve of battle.