“Faix, that's the story up in Dublin; they say he 'd no other way of clearing off the debts on his property. Bad cess to me if I 'd do it! Here I am, a robber and a highwayman, I don't deny it, but may I wear hemp for a handkerchief if I 'd sell my country. Bad luck to the Union, and all that votes for it,” said he, as, filling a bumper of whiskey, he tossed it off to this laudable sentiment.
“If you had n't wronged my friend the Knight of Gwynne, I'm not certain that I wouldn't have pledged your toast myself.”
“If he 's a friend of yours I say nothing against him; but sure when he—”
“Once for all,” said Daly, sternly, “this story is false;” while he added, in a low muttering to himself, “corruption must needs have spread widely when such a calumny was even ventured on.—And so, Freney, Hickman escaped you?”
“He did, sir,” said Freney, sighing; “he made a lodgment in Kildare next day, and more of the money he carried up to town, guarded all the way by the two fellows I told you. Ah! Mr. Daly, if all the world was as cunning as old Peter, I might give up the road as a bad job. There! do you hear that? Listen, sir.”
“What is it?” said Daly, after a moment's silence.
“They're my nags, sir, coming up the road. I'd know their trot if I heard it among a troop of dragoons. 'T is clippers they are.”
As he spoke he arose from the table, and, lighting a small lantern he always carried with him, hastened to the door, where already the two horses were standing, a bare-legged “gossoon” holding the bridles.
