“With who?—with what?”
“With the Cusacks.”
“What the devil do you mean? Who are they?”
“Oh, Tower of Ivory! did you never hear of the Cusacks, with the red beards and the red breeches and long poles with pike-heads on them, that does all the devilment on horseback,—spiking and spitting the people like larks?”
“The Cossacks, is it, you mean? The Cossacks?”
“Ay, just so, the Cusacks. They’re from Clare Island, and thereabouts; and there’s more of them in Meath. They’re my mother’s people, and was always real devils for fighting.”
I burst out into an immoderate fit of laughing at Mike’s etymology, which thus converted Hetman Platoff into a Galway man.
“Oh, murder! isn’t it cruel to hear you laugh that way! There now, alanna! be asy, and I’ll tell you more news. We’ve the house to ourselves to-day. The ould gentleman’s down at Behlem, and the daughter’s in Lisbon, making great preparations for a grand ball they’re to give when you are quite well.”
“I hope I shall be with the army in a few days, Mike; and certainly, if I’m able to move about, I’ll not remain longer in Lisbon.”
“Arrah, don’t say so, now! When was you ever so comfortable? Upon my conscience, it’s more like Paradise than anything else. If ye see the dinner we sit down to every day; and as for drink,—if it wasn’t that I sleep on a ground-floor, I’d seldom see a blanket!”