We found great animation reigning at the Killarney railway station when we arrived there. Mr. Trench met there, first of all, a number of his colleagues, who, like himself, were going to Tralee, and who, as a rule, profited by the opportunity to take their families for a little excursion. Whilst he was speaking to them I went to a corner of the station from whence nasal exclamations had reached me, riveting my attention. They proceeded from a group of American tourists of both sexes, who were contemplating with much interest a fat Irishman, dressed like a farmer, who passed to and fro, attended on each side by an enormous constable, as stiff as though he were made of wood, his little black jacket fitting his figure without a wrinkle, his policeman’s cap inclined 45° over one ear, his stock mounting to his teeth, a small staff in his hand, and a revolver at his side. This unusual spectacle interested me greatly. Could this stout man be a victim of perfidious Albion, who was about to expiate his patriotism by rotting on the mouldering straw of a dungeon? Is he a common criminal? These two hypotheses are manifestly inadmissible. The stout man has not the air of a prisoner; far from wearing handcuffs, he grasps an enormous shillalah, and his two guards, instead of leading him, appear to regulate their movements by his: in any case they allow him to communicate freely with the Americans, who all, one after the other, advance and ask him to inscribe his name in their albums. Trench is too far off to explain this enigma. Luckily, I noticed close to me a native, well dressed and benevolent-looking, whom the stout man had greeted as he passed. I spoke to him, for he looked very polite--but that all Irishmen are, at least as long as they remain in Ireland. From the time they arrive in America, they too often become as rough as barley bread. “Certainly, sir,” replied the obliging native, “I can tell you. I know that man very well. His name is Denis McGrath, and he lives near to me. He is bailiff to one of my neighbours.” “Well, sir, what has happened to him? Why is he followed by those two constables? Is he a prisoner?” “Oh, no! Quite the contrary. For the last two years he has been protected by the police.” “But why do the police protect him?” “Ah! That is because he was mixed up in an eviction case that ended badly. The Land Leaguers in our barony have condemned him to death. He has been shot at already three times during the night through his window. He was not hurt; the balls went into his mattress. But since he has every reason to believe they intend trying again, the police have given him two men to protect him. The parish defrays the expenses.” “Sir, you interest me greatly! Do these constables live with him?” “Certainly. Since they never leave him, day or night!” “That must be a great inconvenience in a small household.”