“He looked round, and what did he see, but an old man in the chaise with a horse-shoe wig, and in the full dress of a bishop.
“'Who is he at all?' said Talbot.
“'The Bishop of Cloyne,' whispered the boy; 'he's going up to the Levee.'
“By my conscience, he is not,” said Talbot, for at that moment he spied Steevens starting from the door at a round trot, and with that he turned the bishop's horses sharp round, laid the whip heavily over them, and took the lead towards Wicklow.
“Never such cries were heard as the bishop's. Some say that he swore hard; but it isn't true—he prayed, and begged, and shouted—but no use. Talbot gave them the steel at every stride; and after a long slapping gallop, he drew up at the stand-house, with a cheer that shook the course; and a fine sight it was, to gee the little man in the lawn sleeves stepping out, his face red with shame and passion.
“'Twelve miles in forty-two minutes, my lord,' said Talbot, showing his watch; 'hope your lordship won't forget the boy.'”
If Mark O'Donoghue enjoyed heartily the story, he was not the less surprised that Harry Talbot was the hero of it—all his previous knowledge of that gentleman leading him to a very different estimate of his taste and pursuits. Indeed, he only knew Talbot from his own lips, and from them he learned to regard him as the emissary despatched by the Irish party in France, to report on the condition of the insurgents in Ireland; and, if necessary, to make preparations for the French landing on the Irish shores. Mark could not well understand how any one charged with such a mission, could have either wasted his time or endangered his safety by any ridiculous adventures, and did not scruple to show his astonishment at the circumstance.
Talbot smiled significantly at the remark, and exchanged a glance with Crossley, while he answered—