“Why, vick na hoiah, no! Connor O'Donovan back! Oh! no, no, Ned; that 'ud be too good news to be thrue.” The honest lad shook his head with an expression of regret that could not be mistaken as the exponent of a sterling heart. And yet, that the reader may perceive how near akin that one circumstance was to the other in his mind, we have only to say, that whilst the regret for Connor was deeply engraven on his features, yet the expression of triumph was as clearly legible as if his name had not been at all mentioned. “Who, then, Ned?” said Alick. “Who the dickens is it?” “Why, divil resave the other than Bartle Flanagan himself--secured--and the constables sent for--an' plaze the Saver he'll be in the stone jug afore his head gets gray any how, the black-hearted villin!” It was even so; and the circumstances accounting for it are very simple. Flanagan, having mounted one of the horses, made the best of his way from what he apprehended was likely to become a scene of deadly strife. Such was the nature of the road, however, that anything like a rapid pace was out of the question. When he had got over about half the boreen he was accosted in the significant terms of the Ribbon password of that day. “Good morrow!” “Good morrow mornin' to you!” “Arrah what Age may you be, neighbor?” Now the correct words were, “What Age are we in?” (* This order or throng of the Ages is taken from Pastorini) but they were often slightly changed, sometimes through ignorance and sometimes from design, as in the latter case less liable to remark when addressed to persons not _up_. “In the end of the Fifth,” was the reply. “An' if you wor shakin' hands wid a friend, how would you do it? Or stay--all's right so far--but give us a grip of your cham ahas (right hand).” Flanagan, who apprehended pursuit, was too cautious to trust himself within reach of any one coming from the direction in which the Bodagh lived. He made no reply, therefore, to this, but urged his horse forward, and attempted to get clear of his catechist. “Dhar Dhegh! it's Flanagan,” said a voice which was that of Alick Nulty; and the next moment the equestrian was stretched in the mud, by a heavy blow from the but of a carbine. Nearly a score of men were immediately about him; for the party he met on his return were the Bodagh's son, his servants, and such of the cottiers as lived near enough to be called up to the rescue. On finding himself secured, he lost all presence of mind, and almost all consciousness of his situation. “I'm gone,” said he; “I'm a lost man; all Europe can't save my life. Don't kill me, boys; don't kill me; I'll go wid yez quietly--only, if I am to die, let me die by the laws of the land.” “The laws of the land?” said John O'Brien; “oh, little, Bartle Flanagan, you respected them. You needn' be alarmed now--you are safe here--to the laws of the land we will leave you; and by them you must stand or fall.”