“The devil a reason, only she took me to a cake.” ** “I comprehend the rest.” “Feaks! it was all her own fault--she would keep dancing to the last. The night was dark, and we were hearty. *** I lost my way--and she her character.” * Anglice, foster-brother. ** Cakes are nightly assemblies common in the ‘west of Ireland, and holden for the purposes of dancing, drinking, and courting. In returning from these festive meetings, ladies’ reputations and gentlemen’s skulls are occasionally severely damaged. *** Anglicê, nearly drunk. “Well! and why not repair the damage, Marc?” “Is it me! and she four years older? By this book”--and he kissed his hat religiously--“for all the ladies and priests that ever wore cap or vestment, I would not marry ye, Kitty O’Dwyer!” “Well, Marc, you are upon this point the best judge.” “There’s no use in concealing anything, and you, my foster-brother, Master Hector. Kitty’s a great Catholic, and a Carmelite to boot--and my lady and Father Grady will fairly banish me the country, when they hear that it was through me she got the blast.” “Rebel, Marc! Refuse, point-blank. Hold out manfully--and neither priest, nor bishop, can make you marry, if you don’t like it.” “And then I’ll be made a world’s wonder of!” and Marc Antony groaned at the very thought. “Called out in the chapel--cursed from the altar--bundled off to Ball--trotted up Croagh Patrick--ay, and as Father Grady will stick to Kitty like a burr, I may be despatched to Lough Dharg * with gravel in my shoes.” “Bad enough, Marc. And pray what is to be done?” “The devil a choice have I left,” said the fosterer, with a groan, “good, bad, nor indifferent, but list or turn Protestant.” “Awkward alternatives.” Marc smiled. “And would I not have an elegant life of it afterwards in the servants’-hall? Sorra two men in the house that I can’t lick; but what could I do with the women? No, no, Master Hector!--I’ll list.” “Think of it, Marc.” “I have thought of it already. The priest and my lady will hear all in the morning, and, faith, I’ll give them leg-bail in the meantime. Are you not going to Dublin, Master Hector.” “I am.” “Then, by the blessin’ of God, there will be two of us there soon.” “Marc, have you any money?” “Not a rap--but plenty for the taking it. I never go to Boyle upon a message, but there are half-a-dozen crimps at my heels; and every recruiting party that passes by, eyes me as if I had the cockade already mounted.” “If you are determined, Marc, I shall say nothing more; but before you choose your regiment, let me know, and probably the Colonel may stand your friend.” “That I will, Master Hector. But, Holy Virgin, what an uproar the house will be in when they miss me in the morning! The priest roaring here--my lady sending there--Kitty singing wirrestrue ** in the dairy--and the ould Colonel delighted at the rookawn, and shouting Devil mend her!” * A holy lake in the north of Ireland.