"Very likely the ragged scion of one of these banditti Irish gentry, who has taken naturally to 'the road.' He should be at school--though I warrant me his knowledge of Terence will not extend beyond his own name," said Lord Henry Somerset, aid-de-camp to the Lord Lieutenant. A moment and I was perfectly calm, though cold as ice. Dismounting, and stepping to the side of the speaker, I said in a low, firm voice:-- "Had your Lordship read Terence more carefully, you would have learned that banditti are sometimes proficient in other arts beside horsemanship," and I touched his holster significantly with my hand. I had not read Terence myself, but with the skilful audacity of my race I calculated that a vague allusion, coupled with a threat, would embarrass him. It did. "Ah--what mean you?" he said, white with rage. "Enough, we are observed," I replied; "Father Tom will wait on you this evening; and to-morrow morning, my lord, in the glen below Pilwiddle we will meet again." "Father Tom--glen!" ejaculated the Englishman, with genuine surprise. "What? do priests carry challenges and act as seconds in your infernal country?" "Yes!" I answered, scornfully, "why should they not? Their services are more often necessary than those of a surgeon," I added significantly, turning away. The party slowly rode off, with the exception of the Hon. Blanche Sackville, who lingered for a moment behind. In an instant I was at her side. Bending her blushing face over the neck of her white filly, she said hurriedly:-- "Words have passed between Lord Somerset and yourself. You are about to fight. Don't deny it--but hear me. You will meet him--I know your skill of weapons. He will be at your mercy. I entreat you to spare his life!" I hesitated. "Never!" I cried passionately; "he has insulted a Denville!" "Terence," she whispered, "Terence--FOR MY SAKE?" The blood rushed to my cheeks, and her eyes sought the ground in bashful confusion. "You love him then?" I cried, bitterly. "No, no," she said, agitatedly, "no, you do me wrong. I--I--cannot explain myself. My father!--the Lady Dowager Sackville--the estate of Sackville--the borough--my uncle, Fitzroy Somerset. Ah! what am I saying? Forgive me. O Terence," she said, as her beautiful head sank on my shoulder, "you know not what I suffer!" I seized her hand and covered it with passionate kisses. But the high-bred English girl, recovering something of her former hauteur, said hastily, "Leave me, leave me, but promise!" "I promise," I replied, enthusiastically; "I WILL spare his life!" "Thanks, Terence,--thanks!" and disengaging her hand from my lips she rode rapidly away.