CHAPTER V.

We have long been persuaded, not less by the impartial assurances of respected friends than by our own internal convictions, that, if we possess any one excellence beyond another--and our talents are varied and extraordinary--it is a tendency to dramatic perfection. And albeit the narrative Arimanes too often mars the beneficent desires of the dramatic Oromasdes; yet at all times we endeavour as much as in us lies to adhere to those venerable observances the Unities, so long and no doubt so justly objects of respect and admiration. In the present tale, although compelled to violate the unity of Time, we have hitherto pretty closely adhered to that of Place, our characters having, for the course of some pages, hovered within and around the precincts of the celebrated village where the scene opened, which (although a hall, or some spacious chamber, might be a little nearer to those rules the classic stage so strictly enforces) we flatter ourselves will be found sufficiently limited for present exigencies. We are now, however, about to take a liberty with the second unity by transporting the reader (may we hope in more senses than one?) to a spot distant from our former scene some six or eight miles, on the high and solitary summit of Kilworth mountain, in that place where the great southern road from Dublin to Cork winds over the acclivity.

The peculiar character of the landscape in question may best be conveyed in the words of a friend whom we once, in an hour of juvenile arrogance and self-exaltation, induced to accompany us thither in order to astonish him with what we conceived to be the boundless impressiveness and glory of the scene. It happened to be rather a breezy day towards the fall of the leaf, and after a pretty sharp and tedious journey, enlivened, however, by our friend's various and interesting converse--for he had been a marvellous traveller, and had crossed the globe from Spitzbergen to Caffraria in one direction, and circled it from Pekin to Peru, _via_ Paris, in another--we arrived at our _point d'appui_. Having allowed him time to recover from what we felt must be his stupendous wonder and delight, we ventured to enquire "what he thought of _that_?" Whereupon, sinking his arms to the elbows in the pockets of his Petersham, and doubling himself in two, as if seized with a cramp in the stomach, he, after a short altercation with himself, replied in a tone that made our very teeth to chatter--"No, I never--yes--now I think on't--there is--there is one slip of wilderness in Crim Tartary as _bad_, as to _howl_ at least, but this beats it out in the _whinstone_."

Over this howling desert, then, we beg to present to our readers Mr Curly Cahill travelling slowly, about dusk, a month or two after the occurrence which took place in the preceding chapter. He was warmly muffled in his great-coat or _loody_, and mounted on a very high-boned horse, whose hoofs, with many interjections of stumble, made the only noise that broke the dismal stillness around. The summit of the mountain passed, the traveller began to descend the southern side, when, after proceeding a few hundred yards, his steed _toed_, and tumbled the rider over its head as softly as if it were his favourite mode of alighting. Mr Cahill, having taken a few minutes' time for reflection, on his face and hands, quietly arose, threw the bridle over his arm, and proceeded to walk the very short remnant of the journey. Turning aside to a miserable hovel on the road, he unbolted the half-door, fastened his rein to the latch, and with a _Dhieu-a-uth_, or "God save you," entered the hut. It was in darkness, save where around a large fire that was flickering half-smothered in its own ashes, sat three men, at a little table, sharing between them a mug of poteen whisky, the only vessel on the table, or probably in the house.

"How long you wor entirely!" said one of the men (who did not move) knocking the ashes out of his pipe, as the traveller entered.

"The baste thravelled badly," replied Curly; "besides, I waited for the fall of the evenin,' as I was loth to be seen comin' the road."

"Well, an' what's on?" asked another. "Be quick--we're not easy here so close to the road, and it'll be pitch-dark with us across the bog."

"Well, then," said Cahill, "the long an' the short of it is this--they're back from Dublin at the Glebe agin. The Capting has sure word from _her_ that she'll be ready to go away with him to-morrow night at twelve. Let ye get three more good boys an' watch, an' soon as ever ye hear them gallop from the gap where they'll mount--make a dash for the house, she'll be shure to leave the windy open, an' then--ye have her murdherin' father--_I need say no more_."

"I'm agin the _blood_ any how," said one of the men; "he forgiv' my brother Mick two years' 'rear of tithe--an' he giv' Jug Sheedy an' her two childher a cabin an' half an acre o' garden when Buck Rice turned her off the Clo'mel estate"----

"Iss"----said another, "an' the wife, when she was alive, was good to the poor. As far as smashin' the place, an' makin' a fire upon the stairs, an' bringin' away the tithe-books goes, I'm agreeable; but I vote agin blood unless we can't help it."

"Then ye'll not get a rap from me," said their tempter.

"Bloor-an-nagers! what do you mean?" asked a third. "Will you be satisfied if we giv' him a beaten'?"

"No--I won't," answered Cahill.

"Nothin' but blood? Well, I'll tell you what, we'll shplit the difference--we'll cut the ears ov' him--he was always hard on us--but h---- to the one ov us will go further; he never took a spade[26] ov ground over a man's head yet, an' he don't desarve it. I won't say but he hurt many a poor boy by the processes--still _that's_ law--but the villyans that go to eject creathures out of house an' home"----

"Well--I'm satisfied with the ears," muttered Cahill. "It'll be some satisfaction for my hundhred-an'-forty-sevin pounds eighteen-an'-tenpence, including costs, of the last arrear; besides he'll suffer in losin' the daughter. I'll meet you here again afther to-morrow night, this hour, an' we'll settle."

And Mr Cahill, remounting his steed, rode away.