“The sorra know I know, Docther; 't is maybe to-night he 'd come--maybe to-morrow--maybe it would be three weeks or a month; and it's not but we want him badly this day, if it was God's will he was here!” These words were uttered in a tone that Tate intended should provoke further questioning, for he was most eager to tell of the duel and its consequences; but the “doctor” never noticed them, but merely muttered a short “Ay.” “How do you do, Hickman?” cried out the deep voice of Bagenal Daly at the same moment. “You did n't chance to see Mulville on the road, did you?” “How d'ye do, Mister Daly? I hope I see you well. I did n't meet Dr. Mulville this morning,--is there anything that's wrong here? Who is it that's ill?” “A young fellow, a stranger, who has been burning powder with Mr. MacDonough up at Cluan, and has been hit under the rib here.” “Well, well, what folly it is, and all about nothing, I 'll engage.” “So your grandson would tell you,” said Daly, sternly; “for if he felt it to be anything, this quarrel should have been his.” “Faix, and I'm glad he left it alone,” said the other, complacently; “'t is little good comes of the same fighting. I 'll be eighty-five if I live to March next, and I never drew sword nor trigger yet against any man.” “One reason for which forbearance is, sir, that you thereby escaped a similar casualty to yourself. A laudable prudence, and likely to become a family virtue.” The old doctor felt all the severity of this taunt against his grandson, but he merely gave one of his half-subdued laughs, and said, in a low voice, “Did you get a note from me, about a fortnight ago? Ay!” “I received one from your attorney,” said Daly, carelessly, “and I threw it into the fire without reading it.” “That was hasty, that was rash, Mr. Daly,” resumed the other, calmly; “it was about the bond for the four thousand six hundred--” “D----n me if I care what was the object of it! I happened to have some weightier things to think of than usury and compound interest, as I, indeed, have at this moment. By the by, if you have not forgotten the old craft, come in and see this poor fellow. I 'm much mistaken, or his time will be but short.” “Ay, ay, that's a debt there's no escaping!” muttered the old man, combining his vein of moralizing with a sly sarcasm at Daly, while he began the complicated series of manouvres by which he usually effected his descent from the pony carriage.