“There's justice for you!” cried Dalton, passionately. “Highway robbery, housebreaking, is decenter. There's some courage, at least, in _them!_ But I wouldn't believe you if you were on your oath. There is n't such a law in Europe, nor in the East'Ingies'!” Abel grinned, but never uttered a word. “So any ould thief, then, can trump up a charge against a man----can send him off to jail--before he can look around him!” “If he do make false charge, he can be condem to de galleys,” was the calm reply. “And what's the use of that?” cried Dalton, in a transport of rage. “Is n't the galleys as good a life as sitting there? Is n't it as manly a thing to strain at an oar as to sweat a guinea?” “I am a burgher of the Grand Duchy,” said Abel, boldly; “and if you defame me, it shall be before witnesses!” And as he spoke he threw wide the window, so that the passers-by might hear what took place. Dalton's face became purple; the veins in his forehead swelled like a thick cordage, and he seemed almost bursting with suppressed passion. For an instant it was even doubtful if he could master his struggling wrath. At last he grasped the heavy chair he had been sitting on, and dashing it down on the ground, broke it into atoms; and then, with an execration in Irish, the very sound of which rang like a curse, he strode out of the shop, and hastened down the street. [Illustration: 278] Many a group of merry children, many a morning excursionist returning from his donkey-ride, remarked the large old man, who, muttering and gesticulating, as he went, strode along the causeway, not heeding nor noticing those around him. Others made way for him as for one it were not safe to obstruct, and none ventured a word as he passed by. On he went, careless of the burning heat and the hot rays of the sun,--against which already many a jalousie was closed, and many an awning spread,--up the main street of the town, across the “Plate,” and then took his way up one of the steep and narrow lanes which led towards the upper town. To see him, nothing could look more purpose-like than his pace and the manner of his going; and yet he knew nothing of where he walked nor whither the path led him. A kind of instinct directed his steps into an old and oft-followed track, but his thoughts were bent on other objects. He neither saw the half-terrified glances that were turned on him, nor marked how they who were washing at the fountain ceased their work, as he passed, to stare at him.