The Fortunes of Hector O'Halloran, and His Man, Mark Antony O'Toole. W. H. Maxwell

peace with Isidora in the morning, and your penalty shall be—a short lecture and another bottle. You are young—your foot has only touched the threshold of the stage of life—at your age one sees only the sun-streak in the sky, but never looks for the cloudbank that lies behind it. What you to-night intended in idle compliment, exploded a hidden mine that all but wrecked our friendship in its very opening. Be advised by one who knows the world, or ought to know it: restrain curiosity in all that concerns another; and know men well, before you pry into their secrets. At the conclusion of this lecture my host took a flask of Burgundy from the sideboard, extracted the cork, and down we sate tête-à-tête again; and, at his desire, I narrated my evening encounter with the smugglers.

      “Upon my honour,” he observed, as I ended, “a perilous adventure; and, faith, the scoundrels gave you coarse usage. I know the scene of your flight; a rough road to gallop over, and the broken bridge, too—did your horse carry you across that ugly chasm?”

      “Took it in stroke, and never touched it with a toe. But for the villains with the rope, I should have had the race hollow.”

      “Ay—these, ‘misbegotten knaves,’ as Jack Falstaff would call them, they ended the affair effectually. Egad—the rope was an excellent contrivance to dismount a cavalier. But you must have had a severe fall? Are you bruised?—are you injured?”

      “Not much, I fancy—although I do feel sore and stiff about the back and shoulders.”

      “It must be examined. I shall be leech for the nonce; and I am not a bad surgeon. Come, let us finish the flask, and then I will show you to a chamber.”

      The time-piece on the chimney-piece chimed three quarters, the wine disappeared, I rose to retire; when my host took up a chamber-lamp and led the way. Proceeding along a narrow gallery, we entered an apartment at its extremity. Mr. Hartley lighted the candles. “These are your quarters,” said he. “Here make yourself at home, and I will return in a few minutes and pronounce upon your bruises.”

      Nothing could surpass the neatness of my dormitory. The curtains and bed furniture were chintz, with drawers, cabinets, and wardrobes, all of Indian workmanship. A glorious fire of bog-deal was blazing in the grate, and on the table I remarked a dressing-case, with every thing requisite even for the toilet of a man of fashion—while a morning gown, slippers, and change of linen, were in process of airing for my service. But other objects caught my eye. Over the chimney-piece hung a curious collection of fire-arms; and beside them, some splendid sabres were suspended. Some were of foreign shape, and richly ornamented with gold and silver mounting; others, made by English artists, were distinguished from the rest by their exquisite finish and simplicity, while not a few bore semblance of great antiquity, and seemed retained rather as objects of curiosity than use.

      On his return, Mr. Hartley found me admiring his armoury; but I neither hazarded a remark nor dared to ask a question. The lesson I had recently received would last me for awhile; and had a ghost and goule been sitting in the corner, tête-à-tête, I should have scarcely ventured to inquire “What the devil brought them there?”

      “There are some handsome weapons in that collection?” said the host.

      “They appear most valuable,” I replied. “I am not a judge of foreign arms; but I see some English guns of beautiful workmanship.” Mr. Hartley passed these lightly by; but taking down a sabre and pistols, he examined them with marked attention. The latter he replaced, but retained the sabre in his hand.

      “Is that sword a valuable one?” My host started. I felt my face flush. Had I again committed mischief? But Mr. Hartley, on this score, relieved me speedily.

      “You ask me is this sabre valuable? It is invaluable. The blade is of the purest Damascene. Observe its beautiful tracery; and its temper is so exquisite, that, without indenting its own edge to the extent of a pin’s point, I could have once shorn that bar of iron in twain,”—and he pointed to the grate. A knock was heard at the door. “It is Dominique—Come in.”

      As he spoke, a new and very remarkable personage presented himself. He was a negro of uncommon height; and if his shape could be relied on, of herculean strength. His limbs, though too heavy to be graceful, were finely moulded; his shoulders square, his breast ample. He wore a light jacket and loose trowsers, and was provided with a china basin, some phials, and a napkin.

      “Now,” said Mr. Hartley, “for our operations. Dominique, assist this gentleman, remove his coat, and bare his shoulders.”

      The negro obeyed, and I submitted to examination.

      “Upon my word, you have made little ado about what might have been a serious injury. Your back and arms are extensively contused, the whole surface is bruised, and the skin discoloured. Come, we shall take a little blood, and then embrocate the parts affected.”

      I felt inclined to demur against submitting to phlebotomy, but mine was no common doctor. The negro bound my arm, produced a lancet, opened a vein with great adroitness, while his master overlooked the operation, until he thought that I had lost a sufficiency of blood. After a copious depletion, Dominique lubricated my back with some oily substance; and, having ascertained that all was correctly done, he assisted me to bed; while his master bade me a friendly good night, quitted the room, and both left me “alone in my glory.”

      What a “whirligig world” we live in! I was but one day fairly flown upon it, and what a medley of adventure had it not produced! In the morning, starting full of “gay hope,” and for the first time master of myself; in the evening, captive of a gang of ruffians, who, in drunken barbarity, would have consigned me to the bottom of the lake, with less compunction than that with which a school-boy drowns a kitten. At night, inmate of a strange mansion, doubtfully received, half rejected afterwards, and now domesticated, as if I had been undoubted heir to every barren hill in view. All this was passing strange; and, lost “in wild conjecture,” and unable to read riddles, I betook myself quietly to sleep.

      If there be faith in strong exercise, a deep potation, and bruised bones, I ought to have slept soundly,—and so I did; dreaming nevertheless of nuns and corsairs, smugglers and sacks, wild ducks, burgundy, bloodletting, and Heaven knows what besides, until a gentle touch upon the shoulder dispelled these troublous visions, and showed, by the misty light of a dull October morning, the well-remembered features of my kind and mysterious host, standing at my bedside.

      “Have you rested well?” said the deep voice of Mr. Hartley, in the gracious tones it could occasionally assume.

      “I have slept most soundly; and find myself so far recovered from bruise and battery, that I could”—

      “Run anew the gauntlet as a gauger, and take the broken bridge, in stroke,” added mine host, with a smile.

      “Well, we shall not put you to the test to-day; you must keep quiet; at least, so says Dominique, your leech. Do you wish to read? you will find books. Would you write? there are materials in the drawing-room. Would you shoot—swim—sail? Here are all facilities. Your mare is in my stable, your cloak-case honestly restored; and, as the stranger avowed who brought them hither, the steed uninjured and your effects untouched. I have received important letters, which for a few hours oblige me to leave home. Before supper you may count upon my return.”

      I thanked him warmly for the kind manner in which he pressed my further stay, but hinted that the time was limited within which I must report myself at head-quarters.

      “Yes, yes,” said he, “I know you must be in Dublin on the 24th; but this is only the 20th. I will send you off to-morrow,—sounder in bones, and safer in property, than when you honoured me with a visit.‘Tis scarcely six o’clock. Sleep till Dominique appears. Addio! One word more,—‘tis cautionary,—we were introduced but yesterday; to-day makes or mars our friendship!”

      Before I could reply, he glided from the chamber, closed the door softly, and left me to sleep or wake, just as I pleased.

      I felt little inclination to court the “drowsy influence” of my pillow; for the stranger’s parting words, like every thing