"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 Abbe, 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 Abbe 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." "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."