“Here he comes! Here he comes! Make way there!” went from mouth to mouth, as O'Halloran, who had entered the inn for a moment, now issued forth in wig and gown, and carrying a heavily laden bag in his hand. The crowd opened for him respectfully and in dead silence, and then a hearty cheer burst forth, that echoed through the wide square, and was taken up by hundreds of voices in the neighboring streets. It needed not the reverend companionship of Father John M'Enerty, the parish priest of Curraghglass, who walked at his side, to secure him this hearty burst of welcome, although of a truth the circumstance had its merit also, and many favorable comments were passed upon O'Halloran for the familiar way he leaned on the priest's arm, and the kindly intelligence that subsisted between them. If anything could have added to the pleasure of the assembled crowd at the instant, it was an announcement by Father John, who, turning round on the steps of the courthouse, informed them in a kind of confidential whisper that was heard over the square, that “if they were good boys, and did n't make any disturbance in the town,” the Counsellor would give them a speech when the trial was over. The most deafening shout of applause followed this declaration, and whatever interest the questions of law had possessed for them before was now merged in the higher anxiety to hear the great Counsellor himself discuss the “veto,” that long-agitated question each had taught himself to believe of nearest importance to himself. “When last I visited this town,” said Bicknell to the senior counsel employed in the Knight's behalf, “I witnessed a very different scene. Then we had triumphal arches, and bonfire illuminations, and addresses. It was young Darcy's birthday, and a more enthusiastic reception it is impossible to conceive than he met in these very streets from these very people.” “There is only one species of interest felt for dethroned monarchs,” said the other, caustically,--“how they bear their misfortunes.” “The man you see yonder waving his hat to young O'Reilly was one of a deputation to congratulate the heir of Gwynne Abbey! I remember him well,--his name is Mitchell.” “I hope not the same I see upon our jury-list here,” said the Counsellor, as he unfolded a written paper, and perused it attentively. “The same man; he holds his house under the Darcys, and has received many and deep favors at their hands.” “So much the worse, if we should find him in the jury-box. But have we any chance of young Darcy yet? Do you give up all hope of his arrival?” “The last tidings I received from my clerk were, that he was to follow him down to Plymouth by that night's mail, and still hoped to be in time to catch him ere the transport sailed.” “What a rash and reckless fellow he must be, that would leave a country where he has such interests at stake!”