Martin had already told his brother of his matrimonial speculations, and had received certain hints from that learned youth as to the proper means of getting correct information as to the amount of the lady’s wealth,—­her power to dispose of it by her own deed,—­and certain other particulars always interesting to gentlemen who seek money and love at the same time.  John did not quite approve of the plan; there might have been a shade of envy at his brother’s good fortune; there might be some doubt as to his brother’s power of carrying the affair through successfully; but, though he had not encouraged him, he gave him the information he wanted, and was as willing to talk over the matter as Martin could desire.

As they were standing in the crowd, their conversation ran partly on Repeal and O’Connell, and partly on matrimony and Anty Lynch, as the lady was usually called by those who knew her best.

“Tear and ’ouns Misther Lord Chief Justice!” exclaimed Martin, “and are ye niver going to opin them big doors?”

“And what’d be the good of his opening them yet,” answered John, “when a bigger man than himself an’t there?  Dan and the other boys isn’t in it yet, and sure all the twelve judges couldn’t get on a peg without them.”

“Well, Dan, my darling!” said the other, “you’re thought more of here this day than the lot of ’em, though the place in a manner belongs to them, and you’re only a prisoner.”

“Faix and that’s what he’s not, Martin; no more than yourself, nor so likely, may-be.  He’s the traverser, as I told you before, and that’s not being a prisoner.  If he were a prisoner, how did he manage to tell us all what he did at the Hall yesterday?”

“Av’ he’s not a prisoner, he’s the next-door to it; it’s not of his own free will and pleasure he’d come here to listen to all the lies them thundhering Saxon ruffians choose to say about him.”

“And why not?  Why wouldn’t he come here and vindicate himself?  When you hear Sheil by and by, you’ll see then whether they think themselves likely to be prisoners!  No—­no; they never will be, av’ there’s a ghost of a conscience left in one of them Protesthant raps, that they’ve picked so carefully out of all Dublin to make jurors of.  They can’t convict ’em!  I heard Ford, the night before last, offer four to one that they didn’t find the lot guilty; and he knows what he’s about, and isn’t the man to thrust a Protestant half as far as he’d see him.”

“Isn’t Tom Steele a Protesthant himself, John?”

“Well, I believe he is.  So’s Gray, and more of ’em too; but there’s a difference between them and the downright murdhering Tory set.  Poor Tom doesn’t throuble the Church much; but you’ll be all for Protesthants now, Martin, when you’ve your new brother-in-law.  Barry used to be one of your raal out-and-outers!”

“It’s little, I’m thinking, I and Barry’ll be having to do together, unless it be about the brads; and the law about them now, thank God, makes no differ for Roman and Protesthant.  Anty’s as good a Catholic as ever breathed, and so was her mother before her; and when she’s Mrs Kelly, as I mane to make her, Master Barry may shell out the cash and go to heaven his own way for me.”