I must not omit to say that poor as his fare was, he nevertheless offered me a share of it. I explained I had already lunched, and while he was discussing his meal, we entered into conversation. “You must be pretty well advanced in years,” I said, “though one would not think it to see how you manage your boat.” “_Shure_, sir, I was _borren_ in the _Ribillion_!” Let me here observe that this is the common answer given by many Irish peasants as to their age. The “Ribillion” seems to have made an epoch in their history, and they consider that any person over middle age must have been born during that momentous period. The date appears to matter little to them. So, though I entertained private doubts of Cloney’s being 89 years old, I let that pass, and we went on talking. “Have you any children?” “_Shire_ I have!... Me sons they are fishermen, and me daughters are all marr’d, near here....” “And you live alone?” “Yes, sir, that I do.” “It must be a lonely life for you. Were you never tempted to marry again after your wife’s death? A fine man like you would have had no difficulty in finding a wife.” “Och, sir, after me ould woman died ... (with a burst of emotion) I always remained a _dacent widowman_ ... that I did!...” While we were talking I had been looking at the walls of the cabin, and I was surprised at finding none of the usual League’s documents upon them. I turned to Mat and expressed my surprise. Instantly Mat let fall the knife with which he was conveying a piece of herring to his mouth, and burst into loud execrations. “Och! the b⸺ villains!” he exclaimed; “the dirty never-do-well wh⸺! the de’il take them for his own! ... the whole lot is not worth a pennyworth o’ salt; ... etc., etc.” I confess I rather wondered at this violence. But as everyone has a perfect right to his own opinion, I did not press the point. “And you, sir, you be not English, are ye?” said Mat after a moment. He had suddenly grown calm again. “No, I am French.” “Och! _Shure_ the French are foine fellows. I had an uncle that fought the French for three days at Badajos, and he always said they were b⸺y devils, ... begging your pardon, sir, foine fellows they were.... Me uncle always said so, ... under _Bonney_ the French fought, ... b⸺d ... foine fellows, to be sure.... Me uncle also said they had no landlords down there. Now, is that true, sir?” added Mat Cloney, looking at me with a queer expression of countenance. No landlords? could that be true? He seemed to consider such a state of things suited to fairy-land.