We have said that Mr. Dempsey had barely time to conceal himself when the door was opened,--so narrow indeed was his escape, that had the new arrival been a second sooner, discovery would have been inevitable; as it was, the pictorial Daly and Sandy rocked violently to and fro, making their natural ferocity and grimness something even more terrible than usual. Mr. Nickie remarked nothing of this. His first care was to divest himself of certain travelling encumbrances, like one who proposes to make a visit of some duration, and then, casting a searching look around the premises, he proceeded,-- “Now for Mr. Darcy--” “If ye 'r maning the Knight of Gwynne, sir, his honor--” “Well, is his honor at home?” said the other, interrupting with a saucy laugh. “No, sir,” said Tate, almost overpowered at the irreverence of his questioner. “When do you expect him, then,--in an hour or two hours?” “He 's in England,” said Tate, drawing a long breath. “In England! What do you mean, old fellow? He has surely not left this lately?” “Yes, sir, 'twas the King sent for him, I heerd the mistress say.” A burst of downright laughter from the stranger stopped poor Tate's explanation. “Why, it's _you_ his Majesty ought to have invited,” cried Mr. Nickie, wiping his eyes, “_you yourself_, man; devilish fit company for each other you 'd be.” Poor Tate had not the slightest idea of the grounds on which the stranger suggested his companionship for royalty, but he was not the less insulted at the disparagement of his master thus implied. “'T is little I know about kings or queens,” growled out the old man, “but they must be made of better clay than ever I seen yet, or they 're not too good company for the Knight of Gwynne.” After a stare for some seconds, half surprise, half insolence, Nickie said, “You can tell me, perhaps, if this cottage is called 'The Corvy'?” “Ay, that's the name of it.” “The property of one Bagenal Daly, Esquire, isn't it?” Tate nodded an assent. “Maybe he is in England too,” continued Nickie. “Perhaps it was the Queen sent for him,--he 's a handsome man, I suppose?” “Faix, you can judge for yourself,” said Tate, “for there he is, looking at you this minute.” Nickie turned about hastily, while a terrible fear shot through him that his remarks might have been heard by the individual himself; for, though a stranger to Daly personally, he was not so to his reputation for hare-brained daring and rashness, nor was it till he had stared at the wooden representative for some seconds that he could dispel his dread of the original. “Is that like him?” asked he, affecting a sneer. “As like as two pays,” said Tate, “barring about the eyes; Mr. Daly's is brighter and more wild-looking. The Blessed Joseph be near us!” exclaimed the old man, crossing himself devoutly, “one would think the crayture knew what we were saying. Sorra lie in 't, there 's neither luck nor grace in talking about you!”