there,’ said I, ‘wet to the skin, and shaking as if he had the ague.’ ‘And is this him?’ said the sergeant as we went outside. ‘It is,’ said I, ‘maybe you know him?’ ‘Maybe I’ve a guess,’ said he, bursting into a fit of laughing, that I thought he’d choke with. ‘Well, sergeant,’ said I, ‘I always took you for a humane man; but, if that’s the way you treat a fellow-creature in distress.’ ‘A fellow-creature,’ said he, laughing louder than before. ‘Ay, a fellow-creature,’ said I—for the sergeant was an orangeman—‘and if he differs from you in matters of religion, sure he’s your fellow-creature still.’ ‘Troth, Doctor, I think there’s another trifling difference betune us,’ said he. ‘Damn your politics,’ said I; ‘never let them interfere with true humanity.’ Wasn’t I right, Major? ‘Take good care of him, and there’s a half-a-crown for ye.’ So saying these words, I steered along by the barrack wall, and, after a little groping about, got up stairs to my quarters, when, thanks to a naturally good constitution, and regular habits of life, I soon fell fast asleep.” When the Doctor had said thus much, he pushed his chair slightly from the table, and, taking off his wine, looked about him with the composure of a man who has brought his tale to a termination. “Well, but Doctor,” said the Major, “you are surely not done. You have not yet told us who your interesting friend turned out to be.” “That’s the very thing, then, I’m not able to do.” “But, of course,” said another, “your story does not end there.” “And where the devil would you have it end?” replied he. “Didn’t I bring my hero home, and go asleep afterwards myself, and then, with virtue rewarded, how could I finish it better?” “Oh, of course; but still you have not accounted for a principal character in the narrative,” said I. “Exactly so,” said Curzon. “We were all expecting some splendid catastrophe in the morning; that your companion turned out to be the Duke of Leinster, at least—or perhaps a rebel general, with an immense price upon his head.” “Neither the one nor the other,” said Fin, drily. “And do you mean to say there never was any clue to the discovery of him?” “The entire affair is wrapt in mystery to this hour,” said he. “There was a joke about it, to be sure, among the officers; but the North Cork never wanted something to laugh at.” “And what was the joke?” said several voices together. “Just a complaint from old Mickey Oulahan, the postmaster, to the Colonel, in the morning, that some of the officers took away his blind mare off the common, and that the letters were late in consequence.” “And so, Doctor,” called out seven or eight, “your friend turned out to be—” “Upon my conscience they said so, and that rascal, the serjeant, would take his oath of it; but my own impression I’ll never disclose to the hour of my death.” CHAPTER XVI. THEATRICALS. [Illustration: Lorrequer Practising Physic]