“I will go up,” said Reilly, “to the cabin of poor widow Buckley, where we will stop until we think those blood-hounds have gone home. She has a free cottage and garden from me, and has besides been a pensioner of mine for some time back, and I know I can depend upon her discretion and fidelity. Her little place is remote and solitary, and not more than three quarters of a mile from us.”
They accordingly kept the old road for some time, until they reached a point of it where there was an abrupt angle, when, to their utter alarm and consternation, they found themselves within about twenty or thirty yards of a military party.
“Fly,” whispered Fergus, “and leave me to deal with them--if you don't it's all up with you. They won't know me from Adam, but they'll know you at a glance.”
“I cannot leave you in danger,” said Reilly.
“You're mad,” replied the other. “Is it an ould beggar man they'd meddle with? Off with you, unless you wish to sleep in Sligo jail before mornin.”
Reilly, who felt too deeply the truth of what he said, bounded across the bank which enclosed the road on the right-hand side, and which, by the way, was a tolerably high one, but fortunately without bushes. In the meantime a voice cried out, “Who goes there? Stand at your peril, or you will have a dozen bullets in your carcass.”
Fergus advanced towards them, whilst they themselves approached him at a rapid pace, until they met. In a moment they were all about him.
“Come, my customer,” said their leader, “who and what are you? Quick--give an account of yourself.”
“A poor creature that's lookin' for my bit, sir, God help me.”
“One Paddy Brennan, sir, please your honor.”
“Ay--one Paddy Brennan (hiccough), and--and--one Paddy Brennan, where do you go of a Sunday?”
“I don't go out at all, sir, of a Sunda'; whenever I stop of a Saturday night I always stop until Monday mornin'.”
“Troth, I oughtn't to say I am, your honor--or at least a very bad one.”
“Curse me, the fellow's humbug-gin' you, sergeant,” said one of the men; “to be sure he's a Papish.”
“To be sure,” replied several of the others--“doesn't he admit he's a Papish?”
“Blow me, if--if--I'll bear this,” replied the sergeant. “I'm a senior off--off--officer conductin' the examination, and I'll suffer no--no--man to intherfare. I must have subor--or--ordination, or I'll know what for. Leave him to me, then, and I'll work him up, never fear. George Johnston isn't the blessed babe to be imposed upon--that's what I say. Come, my good fellow, mark--mark me now. If you let but a quarter of--of--an inch of a lie out of your lips, I you're a dead man. Are you all charged, gentlemen?”