The Fortunes of Hector O'Halloran, and His Man, Mark Antony O'TooleMaxwell, W. H. (William Hamilton)
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The Fortunes of Hector O'Halloran, and His Man, Mark Antony O'Toole
Maxwell, W. H. (William Hamilton)
Ireland -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
When disencumbered of hat and cloak, the very singular air and figure
of the stranger fastened my attention. His face would have puzzled
Lavater--it was one that you could not look upon without a nameless
feeling of suspicion and alarm, and yet, take each alone, and the
features were positively handsome. Hair, eyes, moustache and beard, were
black as the raven’s wing; and the complexion, dark as a gypsy’s. The
face was well-proportioned--the teeth white and regular--I never looked
on an eye more lustrous, searching, and intelligent; and the forehead
was nobly expanded. But the _ensemble_ was the worst. It bespoke a stern
determination, close akin to ferocity; and betrayed a disposition, stern
of purpose--ardent in regard--immitigable in vengeance.
The stranger’s figure was athletic and commanding--sufficiently
substantial for any feat of strength, and yet not too cumbrous in its
proportions for light and active exercise. His under dress was plain.
He wore a close green jacket and pantaloons, with tawny boots and a buff
waist-belt, in which a weapon, like a highland dirk with a buck’s-horn
handle, was secured. Such was the exterior of our new companion.
While I examined the stranger with deep attention, a hurried look, on
his part, round the table, appeared to satisfy his curiosity touching
the company to whom he had introduced himself. His assumption of
superiority was at once apparent; and, with the easiest manner
imaginable, he usurped a regular dictatorship of the venta. Raising the
drinking-vessel that stood beside his platter, he signalled the landlord
to fill it from the goat-skin, and at one strong draught emptied it to
the bottom, and indulged, afterwards, in observations more remarkable
for candour than compliment, touching the cellars of the posada.
“Bah!” he exclaimed, contemptuously, “call ye that thin liquid, true
Carvallôs? Hast thou no conscience left thee, man?’Tis well enough
wherewithal to wash a supper down; but see, honest friend, that you find
us something better for the evening. Ha!--this podrida’s passable;
and these partridges seem tolerably roasted. On with more viands. Two
friends of mine will presently be here. They have good appetites; have
ridden twenty leagues, and fasted as many hours. Need I say more?”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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