“You should visit us in the autumn,” said O'Donoghue, “when our heaths and arbutus blossoms are in beauty; then, they who have travelled far, tell me that there is nothing to be seen in Switzerland finer than this valley. Draw your chair over here, and let me have the pleasure of a glass of wine with you.”
The party had scarcely taken their places at the table, when Mark re-entered the room, heated and excited with the chase of the fugitives.
“They're off,” muttered he, angrily, “down the glen, and I only hope they may lose their way in it, and spend the night upon the heather.”
As he spoke, he turned his eyes to the corner of the room, where Kerry, in a state of the most abject fear, was endeavouring to extract a cork from a bottle by means of a very impracticable screw.
“Ah! you there,” cried he, as his eyes flashed fire. “Hold the bottle up—hold it steady, you old fool,” and with a savage grin he drew a pistol from his breast pocket and levelled it at the mark.
Kerry was on his knees, one hand on the floor and in the other the bottle, which, despite all his efforts, he swayed backwards and forwards.
“O master, darlin'—O Sir Archy, dear—O Joseph and Mary!”
“I've drank too much wine to hit it flying,” said Mark, with a half drunken laugh, “and the fool won't be steady. There;” and as he spoke, the crash of the report resounded through the room, and the neck of the bottle was snapped off about half an inch below the cork.