All then began to speak together, and join most heartily in the meditated attack on Reuben.
“Arrah! run for the priest,” says Ned Regan; “maybe yee’d like a touch of his reverence’s office first, for fear there might be any sin in it.”
“I thought you’d like him with your brandy, warders,” said Elizabeth with dignity: “I have him below: he’s praying a little, and will be up directly. The whole plan is ready for you, and Jug Ogie has the signal. Here, Keeran,” giving him a green ribbon with a daub of old Squire Fitzgerald, (who was hanged,) dangling therefrom, “if you and the warders do not bring me the captain’s ear, you have neither the courage of a weazel, nor—nor” (striking her breast hard with her able hand) “even the revenge of a woman in yees.”
“Arrah, be asy, my lady!” said Keeran, “be asy! by my sowl, we’ll bring you four-and-twenty pair, if your ladyship have any longing for the ears of such villains, my lady!”
“Now, warders,” said Elizabeth, who was too cautious to leave her castle totally unguarded, “as we are going to be just, let us also be generous; only twenty-four of them, besides five or six of the M‘Mahons, will be there. Now it would be an eternal disgrace to Moret, if we went to overpower them by numbers: twenty-four chosen warders, Father Murphy and the corporal, the gossoon and the piper, are all that shall leave this castle to-night; and if Reuben is not a big bonfire by day-break to-morrow, I hope none of you will come back to me again.”
The priest now made his appearance; he certainly seemed rather as if he had not been idle below during the colloquy on the leads; and the deep impressions upon the bottle which he held in his hand, gave ground to suppose that he had been very busy and earnest in his devotions.
“My flock!” said Father Murphy,—somewhat lispingly,—“my flock”—
“Arrah!” said Keeran Karry, “we’re not sheep to-night: never mind your flocks just now. Father! give us a couple of glasses a piece!—time enough for mutton-making.”
“You are right, my chickens!” bellowed forth Father Murphy, throwing his old black surtout over his shoulder, leaving the empty sleeves dangling at full liberty, and putting a knife and fork in his pocket for ulterior operations:—“I forgive every mother’s babe of you every thing you choose to do till sun-rise: but if you commit any sin after that time, as big even as the blacks of my nele, I can’t take charge of yeer sowls, without a chance of disappointing you.”
All was now in a bustle:—the brandy circulated merrily, and each warder had in his own mind made mince-meat of three or four of the Reuben faction, whose ears they fancied already in their pockets. The priest, spitting on his thumb, marked down the “De profundis” in the leaves of his double manual, to have it ready for the burials:—every man took his long skeen in his belt—had a thick club, with a strong spike at the end of it, slung with a stout leather thong to his wrist; and under his coat, a sharp broad hatchet with a black blade and a crooked handle. And thus, in silence, the twenty-five Moret warders, commanded by Keeran Karry, set out with their priest, the piper, and the gossoon with a copper pot slung over his shoulders as a drum, and a piece of a poker in his hand, to beat it with, on their expedition to the castle of Reuben.