When the priests reached the door of the barrack-yard, they again turned to utter their thanks to the major, and entreat him once more, “not to come a step farther. There now, major, we know the path well, so just give us the pass, and don’t stay out in the night air.” “Ah oui, Monsieur Jones,” said the Abbé, “retournez, je vous prie. We are, I must say, chez nous. Ces braves gens, les North Cork know us by this time.” The major smiled, while he still pressed his services to see them past the picquets, but they were resolved and would not be denied. “With the word for the night, we want nothing more,” said Father Luke. “Well, then,” said the major, in the gravest tone, and he was naturally grave, “you shall have your way, but remember to call out loud, for the first sentry is a little deaf, and a very passionate, ill-tempered fellow to boot.” “Never fear,” said Father Mooney, laughing; “I’ll go bail he’ll hear me.” “Well—the word for the night is—‘Bloody end to the Pope,’—don’t forget, now, ‘Bloody end to the Pope,’” and with these words he banged the door between him and the unfortunate priests; and, as bolt was fastened after bolt, they heard him laughing to himself like a fiend over his vengeance. “And big bad luck to ye, Major Jones, for the same, every day ye see a paving stone,” was the faint sub-audible ejaculation of Father Luke, when he was recovered enough to speak. “Sacristi! Que nous sommes attrappes,” said the Abbé, scarcely able to avoid laughing at the situation in which they were placed. “Well, there’s the quarter chiming now; we’ve no time to lose—Major Jones! Major, darling! Don’t now, ah, don’t! sure ye know we’ll be ruined entirely—there now, just change it, like a dacent fellow—the devil’s luck to him, he’s gone. Well, we can’t stay here in the rain all night, and be expelled in the morning afterwards—so come along.” They jogged on for a few minutes in silence, till they came to that part of the “Duke’s” demesne wall, where the first sentry was stationed. By this time the officers, headed by the major, had quietly slipped out of the gate, and were following their steps at a convenient distance. The fathers had stopped to consult together, what they should do in this trying emergency—when their whisper being overheard, the sentinel called out gruffly, in the genuine dialect of his country, “who goes that?” “Father Luke Mooney, and the Abbé D’Array,” said the former, in his most bland and insinuating tone of voice, a quality he most eminently possessed. “Stand and give the countersign.” “We are coming from the mess, and going home to the college,” said Father Mooney, evading the question, and gradually advancing as he spoke. “Stand, or I’ll shot ye,” said the North Corkian. Father Luke halted, while a muttered “Blessed Virgin” announced his state of fear and trepidation. “D’Array, I say, what are we to do.”