Just as the story came to its end, the attention of the group was drawn off by seeing numbers of people running in a particular direction, while the sound of voices and the general excitement shewed something new was going forward. The noise increased, and now, loud shouts were heard, mingled with the rattling of sticks and the utterance of those party cries so popular in an Irish fair. The young men stood still as if the affair was a mere momentary ebullition not deserving of attention, nor sufficiently important to merit the taking any farther interest in it; nor did they swerve from the resolve thus tacitly formed, as from time to time some three or four would emerge from the crowd, leading forth one, whose bleeding temples, or smashed head, made retreat no longer dishonourable.
“They're at it early,” was the cool commentary of Owen Connor, as with a smile of superciliousness he looked towards the scene of strife.
“The Joyces is always the first to begin,” remarked one of his companions.
“And the first to lave off too,” said Owen; “two to one is what they call fair play.”
“That's Phil's voice!—there now, do you hear him shouting?”
“'Tis that he's best at,” said Owen, whose love for the pretty Mary Joyce was scarcely equalled by his dislike of her ill-tempered brother.
At this moment the shouts became louder and wilder, the screams of the women mingling with the uproar, which no longer seemed a mere passing skirmish, but a downright severe engagement.
“What is it all about, Christy?” said Owen, to a young fellow led past between two friends, while the track of blood marked every step he went.
“'Tis well it becomes yez to ax,” muttered the other, with his swollen and pallid lips, “when the Martins is beating your landlord's eldest son to smithereens.”
“Mr. Leslie—young Mr. Leslie?” cried the three together; but a wild war-whoop from the crowd gave the answer back. “Hurroo! Martin for ever! Down with the Leslies! Ballinashough! Hurroo! Don't leave one of them living! Beat their sowles out!”