The other object of anxiety to Warenne, on this evening, Henry Marston, was a wild, thoughtless, impetuous boy, with high and generous feelings, undisciplined by education. When he joined the regiment, only a few months before, he first quitted the paternal roof beneath which he had been brought up under a private tutor, who had consulted his own ease more than his pupil’s advancement, and had never attempted to teach him the necessity of self-command, or even of concession to the prejudices and opinions of others. From him, therefore, Warenne momentarily expected some burst of temper, or some passionate interruption of his Irish guests, which must lead to a quarrel. His fears were not without reason;—by degrees the little softening remarks which he from time to time threw in were less attended to, while the agitator grew more violent and seditious in his language, louder in tone, and more offensive in his gesticulations. By degrees Henry passed from a state of good-humoured amusement to a feeling of intense provocation, which hardly permitted him to observe the usual courtesies of society; and the former at last venturing to declare in a threatening manner, that “England, if she chose still to continue her galling oppression of Ireland, should remember that Irishmen had hearts and hands, and that she did it at her peril,” he angrily demanded,— “Peril! of what?” “Do you ask of what?” rejoined the indignant orator. “Of war, war to the knife. Ireland cannot—will not—longer be the slave of England. We bid her, and her bloodthirsty myrmidons defiance.” In an instant more than one young officer started from his seat, and together with Henry, who was thoroughly exasperated, loudly took him to task for his ill-timed and ill-placed tirade against their country. At this moment the well-known voice of their lieutenant-colonel was heard. “Mr. Marston, Mr. Kennedy, Captain Warenne; I beg of you to remain quiet.” The clear stern tone in which these few simple words were uttered, permitted not any hesitation. The young soldiers reseated themselves, and a general silence ensued. “Gentlemen,” continued he, speaking slowly and calmly, “this for the present is my table, these gentlemen my guests.” Then addressing himself to the unlucky cause of the disturbance. “Mr. O’Neil, as the countenances of my young friends do not seem to promise much more agreeable conversation, perhaps we had better retire.” He rose from his chair as he concluded, and bowing, led the way to the door. The Irishman followed him, and they all left the room. Colonel Warenne quietly walked before them from the door to the court-yard of the inn, courteously showing the way; as soon, however, as he had reached a spot where he could not be overheard, he turned round and said,—