The other replied, that perhaps she was the only harlot of the kind he would run away from; and maintained, that until all heresy was abolished, and rooted out of the country, the curse of God would sit upon them, as the corrupt law church does now in the shape of an overgrown nightmare. What brought him, who was ready to die for his persecuted church, here? He could tell the heretic;--it was Protestant ascendancy, and he could prove it;--yes, Protestant ascendancy, and nothing else, was it that brought him to that house, its representative, in which he now stood. He maintained that it resembled a watch-house; was it not full of wickedness, noise, and blasphemy; and were there any two creeds; in it that agreed together, and did not fight like devils? How much longer this fiery discussion might have proceeded it is difficult to say. The constable of the night, finding that the two hypocritical vagabonds were a nuisance to the whole place, had them handcuffed together, and both placed in the black hole to finish their argument. In short, there was around the good man--vice, with all her discordant sounds and hideous aspects, clanging in his ear the multitudinous din that arose from the loud and noisy tumult of her brutal, drunken, and debauched votaries. The priest, who respected his cloth and character, did not lay aside his jock, nor expose himself to the coarse jests and ruffianly insolence with which the vagabond minions of justice were in those days accustomed to treat their prisoners. He inquired if he could get a person to carry a message from him to a man named Corbet, living at 25 Constitution Hill; adding, that he would compensate him fairly. On this, one of those idle loungers or orderlies about such places offered himself at once, and said he would bring any message he wished, provided he forked out in the first instance. “Go, then,” said the priest, handing him a piece of silver, “to No. 25 Constitution Hill, where a man named Corbet--what am I saying--Dunphy, lives, and tell him to come to me immediately.” “Ha!” said Darby, laying his finger along; his nose, as he spoke to one of his associates, “I smell an alias there. Good; first Corbet and then Dunphy. What do you call that? That chap is one of the connection. Take the message, Skipton; mark him well, and let him be here, if possible, before we bring the prisoner to Sir Thomas Gourlay's.” The fellow winked in reply, and approaching the priest, asked, “What message have you to send, Mr. Finnerty?” “Tell him--but stay; oblige me with a slip of paper and a pen, I will write it down.” “Yes, that's better,” said Darby. “Nothing like black and white, you know,” he added, aside to Skipton. Father M'Mahon then wrote down his office only; simply saying, “The parish priest of Ballytrain wishes to see Anthony Dunphy as soon as he can come to him.”