In time, however, people grew tired of repeating stories to which no new evidence added any features of interest. They lost the zest for a scandal which ceased to astonish, and “my lord” was as much forgotten, and his existence as unspoken of, as though the old towers had once again become the home of the owl and the jackdaw. It was now about eight years since “the lord” had taken up his abode at the Castle, when one evening, a raw and gusty night of December, the little skiff of the fisherman was seen standing in for shore,--a sight somewhat uncommon, since she always crossed the “Lough” in time for the morning's mail. “There's another man aboard, too,” said a bystander from the little group that watched the boat, as she neared the harbor; “I think it's Mr. Craggs.” “You 're right enough, Sam,--it's the Corporal; I know his cap, and the short tail of hair he wears under it. What can bring him at this time of night?” “He's going to bespeak a quarter of Tim Healey's beef, maybe,” said one, with a grin of malicious drollery. “Mayhap it's askin' us all to spend the Christmas he'd be,” said another. “Whisht! or he 'll hear you,” muttered a third; and at the same instant the sail came clattering down, and the boat glided swiftly past, and entered a little natural creek close beneath where they stood. “Who has got a horse and a jaunting-car?” cried the Corporal, as he jumped on shore. “I want one for Clifden directly.” “It's fifteen miles--devil a less,” cried one. “Fifteen! no, but eighteen! Kiely's bridge is brack down, and you 'll have to go by Gortnamuck.” “Well, and if he has, can't he take the cut?” “He can't.” “Why not? Did n't I go that way last week?” “Well, and if you did, did n't you lame your baste?” “'T was n't the cut did it.” “It was--sure I know better--Billy Moore tould me.” “Billy's a liar!” Such and such-like comments and contradictions were very rapidly exchanged, and already the debate was waxing warm, when Mr. Craggs's authoritative voice interposed with-- “Billy Moore be blowed! I want to know if I can have a car and horse?” “To be sure! why not?--who says you can't?” chimed in a chorus. “If you go to Clifden under five hours my name isn't Terry Lynch,” said an old man in rabbitskin breeches. “I 'll engage, if Barny will give me the blind mare, to drive him there under four.” “Bother!” said the Rabbitskin, in a tone of contempt. “But where's the horse?” cried the Corporal. “Ay, that's it,” said another; “where's the horse?” “Is there none to be found in the village?” asked Craggs, eagerly. “Divil a horse, barrin' an ass. Barny's mare has the staggers the last fortnight, and Mrs. Kyle's pony broke his two knees on Tuesday carrying sea-weed up the rocks.” “But I must go to Clifden; I must be there to-night,” said Craggs. “It's on foot, then, you'll have to do it,” said the Rabbitskin.