"'My troth,' thinks I, 'if the Tyrone have seen their dead, God help the Paythans this day!' An' thin I knew why the Oirish was ragin' behind us as they was. "I gave room to the man, an' he ran forward wid the Haymaker's Lift on his bay'nit an' swung a Paythan clear off his feet by the belly-band av the brute, an' the iron bruk at the lockin'-ring. "'Tim Coulan 'll slape easy to-night,' sez he, wid a grin; an' the next minut his head was in two halves and he wint down grinnin' by sections. "The Tyrone was pushin' an' pushin' in, an' our men was swearin' at thim, an' Crook was workin' away in front av us all, his sword-arm swingin' like a pump-handle an' his revolver spittin' like a cat. But the strange thing av ut was the quiet that lay upon. 'Twas like a fight in a drame--except for thim that was dead. "Whin I gave room to the Oirishman I was expinded an' forlorn in my inside. 'Tis a way I have, savin' your presince, sorr, in action. 'Let me out, bhoys,' sez I, backin' in among thim. 'I'm goin' to be onwell!' Faith they gave me room at the wurrud, though they would not ha' given room for all Hell wid the chill off. When I got clear, I was, savin' your presince, sorr, outragis sick bekaze I had dhrunk heavy that day. "Well an' far out av harm was a Sargint av the Tyrone sittin' on the little orf'cer bhoy who had stopped Crook from rowlin' the rocks. Oh, he was a beautiful bhoy, an' the long black curses was slidin' out av his innocint mouth like mornin'-jew from a rose! "'Fwhat have you got there?' sez I to the Sargint. "'Wan av Her Majesty's bantams wid his spurs up,' sez he. 'He's goin' to Coort-martial me.' "'Let me go!' sez the little orf'cer bhoy. 'Let me go and command my men!' manin' thereby the Black Tyrone which was beyond any command--ay, even av they had made the Divil a Field orf'cer. "'His father howlds my mother's cow-feed in Clonmel,' sez the man that was sittin' on him. 'Will I go back to _his_ mother an' tell her that I've let him throw himself away? Lie still, ye little pinch av dynamite, an' Coort-martial me aftherward.' "'Good,' sez I; ''tis the likes av him makes the likes av the Commandher-in-Chief, but we must presarve thim. Fwhat d'you want to do, sorr?' sez I, very politeful. "'Kill the beggars--kill the beggars!' he shqueaks; his big blue eyes brimmin' wid tears. "'An' how'll ye do that?' sez I. 'You've shquibbed off your revolver like a child wid a cracker; you can make no play wid that fine large sword av yours; an' your hand's shakin' like an asp on a leaf. Lie still an' grow,' sez I. "'Get back to your comp'ny,' sez he; 'you're insolint!' "'All in good time,' sez I, 'but I'll have a dhrink first.' "Just thin Crook comes up, blue an' white all over where he wasn't red. "'Wather!' sez he; 'I'm dead wid drouth! Oh, but it's a gran' day!' "He dhrank half a skinful, and the rest he tilts into his chest, an' it fair hissed on the hairy hide av him. He sees the little orf'cer bhoy undher the Sargint.