“Will there be another Rebellion, then, Darby?”
As I put this question fearlessly, and in a voice loud enough to be heard at some distance, a horseman, wrapped up in a loose cloth cloak, was passing. He suddenly pulled up short, and turning his horse round, stood exactly opposite to the piper. Darby saluted the stranger respectfully, and seemed desirous to pass on; but the other, turning round in his saddle, fixed a stern look on him, and he cried out,—
“What! at the old trade, M'Keown. Is there no curing you, eh?”
“Just so, major,” said Darby, assuming a tone of voice he had not made use of the entire morning; “I 'm conveying a little instrumental recreation.”
“None of your damned gibberish with me. Who 's that with you?”
“He 's the son of a neighbor of mine, your honor,” said Darby, with an imploring look at me not to betray him. “His father 's a schoolmaster,—a philomath, as one might say.”
I was about to contradict this statement bluntly, when the stranger called out to me,—
“Mark me, young sir, you 're not in the best of company this morning, and I recommend you to part with your friend as soon as may be. And you,” said he, turning to Darby, “let me see you in Athlone at ten o'clock to-morrow. D' ye hear me?”
The piper grew pale as death as he heard this command, to which he only responded by touching his hat in silence; while the horseman, drawing his cloak around, dashed his spurs into his beast's flanks, and was soon out of sight. Darby stood for a moment or two looking down the road, where the stranger had disappeared; a livid hue colored his cheek, and a tremulous quivering of his under-lip gave him the appearance of one in ague.
“I'll be even with ye yet,” muttered he between his clenched teeth; “and when the hour comes—”