When he mentioned the peculiar physiognomy and figure of the old officer who rode at the head of the regiment-- "_That_," said the old crone, dogmatically, "was ould Colonel Grimshaw, the Lord presarve us! he's buried in the church-yard iv Chapelizod, and well I remember him, when I was a young thing, an' a cross ould floggin' fellow he was wid the men, an' a devil's boy among the girls--rest his soul!" "Amen!" said Peter; "it's often I read his tombstone myself; but he's a long time dead." "Sure, I tell you he died when I was no more nor a slip iv a girl--the Lord betune us and harm!" "I'm afeard it is what I'm not long for this world myself, afther seeing such a sight as that," said Peter, fearfully. "Nonsinse, avourneen," retorted his grandmother, indignantly, though she had herself misgivings on the subject; "sure there was Phil Doolan, the ferryman, that seen black Ann Scanlan in his own boat, and what harm ever kem of it?" Peter proceeded with his narrative, but when he came to the description of the house, in which his adventure had had so sinister a conclusion, the old woman was at fault. "I know the house and the ould walls well, an' I can remember the time there was a roof on it, and the doors an' windows in it, but it had a bad name about being haunted, but by who, or for what, I forget intirely." "Did you ever hear was there gold or silver there?" he inquired. "No, no, avick, don't be thinking about the likes; take a fool's advice, and never go next or near them ugly black walls again the longest day you have to live; an' I'd take my davy, it's what it's the same word the priest himself 'ud be afther sayin' to you if you wor to ax his riverence consarnin' it, for it's plain to be seen it was nothing good you seen there, and there's neither luck nor grace about it." Peter's adventure made no little noise in the neighborhood, as the reader may well suppose; and a few evenings after it, being on an errand to old Major Vandeleur, who lived in a snug old-fashioned house, close by the river, under a perfect bower of ancient trees, he was called on to relate the story in the parlor. The major was, as I have said, an old man; he was small, lean, and upright, with a mahogany complexion, and a wooden inflexibility of face; he was a man, besides, of few words, and if _he_ was old, it follows plainly that his mother was older still. Nobody could guess or tell _how_ old, but it was admitted that her own generation had long passed away, and that she had not a competitor left. She had French blood in her veins, and although she did not retain her charms quite so well as Ninon de l'Enclos, she was in full possession of all her mental activity, and talked quite enough for herself and the major. "So, Peter," she said, "you have seen the dear, old Royal Irish again in the streets of Chapelizod. Make him a tumbler of punch, Frank; and Peter, sit down, and while you take it let us have the story."