Such, exactly, was the state of the country on the night when Reilly found himself a solitary traveller on the road, ignorant of his destiny, and uncertain where or in what quarter he might seek shelter until morning.
He had not gone far when he overtook another traveller, with whom he entered into conversation.
“God save you, my friend.”
“God save you kindly, sir,” replied the other; “was not this an awful night?”
“If you may say so,” returned Reilly unconsciously, and for the moment forgetting himself, “well may I, my friend.”
Indeed it is probable that Reilly was thrown somewhat off his guard by the accent of his companion, from which he at once inferred that he was a Catholic.
“Why, sir,” replied the man, “how could it be more awful to you than to any other man?”
“Suppose my house was blown down,” said Reilly, “and that yours was not, would not that be cause sufficient?”
“My house!” exclaimed the man with a deep sigh; “but sure you ought to know, sir, that it's not every man has a house.”
“And perhaps I do know it.”