Willy Reilly. William Carleton

who protect you. As for you, Fergus,” he added, addressing one of the Rapparee's followers, “you are, thank God! the only one of my blood who has ever disgraced it by leading such a lawless and guilty life. Be advised by me—leave that man of treachery,rapine, and murder—abandon him and re-form your life—and if you are disposed to become a good and an industrious member of society, go to some other country, where the disgrace you have incurred in this may not follow you. Be advised by me, and you shall not want the means of emigrating. Now begone; and think, each of you, of what I have said.”

      The Rapparee glanced at the noble-looking young fellow with the vindictive ferocity of an enraged bull, who feels a disposition to injure you, but is restrained by terror; or, which is quite as appropriate, a cowardly but vindictive mastiff, who eyes you askance, growls, shows his teeth, but has not the courage to attack you.

      “Do not look at me so, sir,” said Reilly; “you know I fear you not.”

      “But the meantime,” replied the Rapparee, “what's to prevent me from putting a bullet into you this moment, if I wish to do it?”

      “There are ten thousand reasons against it,” returned Reilly. “If you did so, in less than twenty-four hours you would find yourself in Sligo jail—or, to come nearer the truth, in less than five minutes you would find yourself in hell.”

      “Well, now, suppose I should make the trial,” said the Rapparee. “You don't know, Mr. Reilly, how you have crossed me to-night. Suppose now I should try—and suppose, too, that not one of you three should leave the spot you stand on only as corpses—wouldn't I have the advantage of you then?”

      Reilly turned towards the ruined chapel, and simply raising his right hand, about eight or ten persons made their appearance; but, restrained by signal from him, they did not advance.

      “That will do,” said he. “Now, Randal, I hope you understand your position. Do not provoke me again; for if you do I will surround you with toils from which you could as soon change your fierce and brutal nature as escape. Yes, and I will take you in the midst of your ruffian guards, and in the deepest of your fastnesses, if ever you provoke me as you have done on other occasions, or if you ever injure this gentleman or any individual of his family. Come, sir,” he proceeded, addressing the old man, “you are now mounted—my horse is in this old ruin—and in a moment I shall be ready to accompany you.”

      Reilly and his companions joined our travellers, one of the former having offered the old squire a large frieze great-coat, which he gladly accepted, and having thus formed a guard of safety for him and his faithful attendant, they regained the old road we I have described, and resumed their journey.

      When they had gone, the Rapparee and his companions looked after them with blank faces for some minutes.

      “Well,” said their leader, “Reilly has knocked up our game for this night. Only for him I'd have had a full and sweet revenge. However, never mind: it'll go hard with me, or I'll have it yet. In the mane time it won't be often that such another opportunity will come in our way.”

      “Well, now that it is over, what was your intention, Randal?” asked the person to whom Reilly had addressed himself.

      “Why,” replied the miscreant, “after the deed was done, what was to prevent us from robbing the house to-night, and taking away his daughter to the mountains. I have long had my eye on her, I can tell you, and it'll cost me a fall, or I'll have her yet.”

      “You had better,” replied Fergus Reilly, for such was his name, “neither make nor meddle with that family afther this night. If you do, that terrible relation of mine will hang you like a dog.”

      “How will he hang me like a dog?” asked the Rapparee, knitting his shaggy eyebrows, and turning upon him a fierce and gloomy look.

      “Why, now, Randal, you know as well as I do,” replied the other, “that if he only raised his finger against you in the country, the very people that harbor both you and us would betray us, aye, seize us, and bind us hand and foot, like common thieves, and give us over to the authorities. But as for himself, I believe you have sense enough to let him alone. When you took away Mary Traynor, and nearly kilt her brother, the young priest—you know they were Reilly's tenants—I needn't tell you what happened: in four hours' time he had the country up, followed you and your party—I wasn't with you then, but you know it's truth I'm spakin'—and when he had five to one against you, didn't he make them stand aside until he and you should decide it between you? Aye, and you know he could a' brought home every man of you tied neck and heels, and would, too, only that there was a large reward offered for the takin' of you livin' or dead, and he scorned to have any hand in it on that account.”

      “It was by a chance blow he hit me,” said the Rapparee—“by a chance blow.”

      “By a couple dozen chance blows,” replied the other; “you know he knocked you down as fast as ever you got up—I lave it to the boys here that wor present.”

      “There's no use in denyin' it, Randal,” they replied; “you hadn't a chance wid him.”

      “Well, at all events,” observed the Rapparee, “if he did beat me, he's the only man in the country able to do it; but it's not over, curse him—Ill have another trial with him yet.”

      “If you take my advice,” replied Reilly, “you'll neither make nor meddle with him. He's the head o' the Catholics in this part of the country, and you know that; aye, and he's their friend, and uses the friendship that the Protestants have towards him for their advantage, wherever he can. The man that would injure Willy Reilly is an enemy to our religion, as well as to every thing that's good and generous; and mark me, Randal, if ever you cross him in what he warned you against this very night, I'll hang you myself, if there wasn't another livin' man to do it, and to the back o' that again I say you must shed no blood so long as I am with you.”

      “That won't be long, then,” replied the Rapparee, pulling out a purse; “there's twenty guineas for you, and go about your business; but take care, no treachery.”

      “No,” replied the other, “I'll have none of your money; there's blood in it. God forgive me for ever joinin' you. When I want money I can get it; as for treachery, there's none of it in my veins; good-night, and remember my words.”

      Having thus spoken, he took his way along the same road by which the old squire and his party went.

      “That fellow will betray us,” said the Rapparee.

      “No,” replied his companions firmly, “there never was treachery in his part of the family; he is not come from any of the Queen's O'Reillys.* We wish you were as sure of every man you have as you may be of him.”

      * Catholic families who were faithful and loyal to Queen

       Elizabeth during her wars in Ireland were stigmatized by the

       nickname of the Queen's friends, to distinguish them from

       others of the same name who had opposed her, on behalf of

       their religion, in the wars which desolated Ireland during

       her reign; a portion of the family of which we write were on

       this account designated as the Queen's O'Reillys.

      “Well, now,” observed their leader, “a thought strikes me; this ould squire will be half dead all night. At any rate he'll sleep like a top. Wouldn't it be a good opportunity to attack the house—aise him of his money, for he's as rich as a Jew—and take away the Colleen Bawn? We'll call at Shane Bearna's** stables on our way and bring the other boys along wid us. What do you say?”

      ** Shane Bearna was a celebrated Rapparee, who, among his

       other exploits, figured principally as a horse-stealer. He

       kept the stolen animals concealed in remote mountain caves,

       where he trimmed and dyed them in such a way as made it

       impossible to recognize them. These caves