“What have you got there, Mark?” called out the O'Donoghue, as the young man threw the still insensible figure of the Doctor upon the sofa.
“Old Roach, of Killarney,” answered Mark sullenly. “That confounded fool, Kerry, must have been listening at the door there, to what we were saying, and took him for Cassidy, the sub-sheriff; he fired a charge of slugs at him—that's certain; but I don't think there's much mischief done.” As he spoke, he filled a goblet with wine, and without any waste of ceremony, poured it down the Doctor's throat. “You're nothing the worse, man,” added he, roughly; “you've given many a more dangerous dose yourself, I'll be bound, and people have survived it too.”
“I'm better now,” said Roach, in a faint voice; “I feel something better; but may I never leave this spot if I don't prosecute that scoundrel, O'Leary. It was all malice—I can swear to that.”
“Not a bit of it, Roach; Mark says the fellow mistook you for Cassidy.”
“No, no—don't tell me that: he knew me well; but I foresaw it all. He filled my pony with water; I might as well be rolling a barrel before me, as try to drive him this morning. The rascal had a spite against me for giving him nothing; but he shall hang for it.”
“Come, come, Roach, don't be angry; it's all past and over now; the fellow did it for the best.”
“Did it for the best! Fired a loaded blunderbuss into a fellow-creature for the best!”
“To be sure he did,” broke in Mark, with an imperious look and tone. “There's no harm done, and you need not make such a work about it.”
“Where's the pony and the gig, then?” called out Roach, suddenly remembering the last sight he had of them.
“I heard the old beast clattering down the glen, as if he had fifty kettles at his tail. They'll stop him at last; and if they shouldn't, I don't suppose it matters much: the whole yoke wasn't worth a five pound note—no, even giving the owner into the bargain,” muttered he, as he turned away.