“The countersign,” said the sentry, whose figure they could perceive in the dim distance of about thirty yards. “Sure ye’ll let us pass, my good lad, and ye’ll have a friend in Father Luke the longest day ye live, and ye might have a worse in time of need; ye understand.” Whether he did understand or not, he certainly did not heed, for his only reply was the short click of his gun-lock, that bespeaks a preparation to fire. “There’s no help now,” said Father Luke; “I see he’s a haythen; and bad luck to the major, I say again;” and this in the fulness of his heart he uttered aloud. “That’s not the countersign,” said the inexorable sentry, striking the butt end of the musket on the ground with a crash that smote terror into the hearts of the priests. Mumble—mumble—“to the Pope,” said Father Luke, pronouncing the last words distinctly, after the approved practice of a Dublin watchman, on being awoke from his dreams of row and riot by the last toll of the Post-office, and not knowing whether it has struck “twelve” or “three,” sings out the word “o’clock,” in a long sonorous drawl, that wakes every sleeping citizen, and yet tells nothing how “time speeds on his flight.” “Louder,” said the sentry, in a voice of impatience. ——“to the Pope.” “I don’t hear the first part.” “Oh then,” said the priest, with a sigh that might have melted the heart of anything but a sentry, “Bloody end to the Pope; and may the saints in heaven forgive me for saying it.” “Again,” called out the soldier; “and no muttering.” “Bloody end to the Pope,” cried Father Luke in bitter desperation. “Bloody end to the Pope,” echoed the Abbé. “Pass bloody end to the Pope, and good night,” said the sentry, resuming his rounds, while a loud and uproarious peal of laughter behind, told the unlucky priests they were overheard by others, and that the story would be over the whole town in the morning. Whether it was that the penance for their heresy took long in accomplishing, or that they never could summon courage sufficient to face their persecutor, certain it is, the North Cork saw them no more, nor were they ever observed to pass the precincts of the college, while that regiment occupied Maynooth. Major Jones himself, and his confederates, could not have more heartily relished this story, than did the party to whom the doctor heartily related it. Much, if not all the amusement it afforded, however, resulted from his inimitable mode of telling, and the power of mimicry, with which he conveyed the dialogue with the sentry: and this, alas, must be lost to my readers, at least to that portion of them not fortunate enough to possess Doctor Finucane’s acquaintance. “Fin! Fin! your long story has nearly famished me,” said the padre, as the laugh subsided; “and there you sit now with the jug at your elbow this half-hour; I never thought you would forget our old friend Martin Hanegan’s aunt.” “Here’s to her health,” said Fin; “and your reverence will get us the chant.”