“‘Oh! blud-an-ounze!’ he repeated several times, ‘is this yourself—your own four bones whole and sound after all? Well, well, I knew, I knew I should see you again, though I was certain you were dead; and many is the _pater-and-avi_ I said for your soul, though I believe you are a Protestant. But where’s the harm in that? did not you fight like any Roman for ould Ireland? and what more could a real true-born Catholic do? Troth, some of them didn’t do as much, the _spalpeens_, or we wouldn’t have now to begin again.’ “‘So, so, Howlan,’ said the Exile, ‘you haven’t yet learned to be loyal?’ “‘Loyal!’ repeated the hero of Oulard, ‘no, in troth, for it is not in my grain; and faith, I believe if I was paid for it, these stripes on my back would not let me. Oh no, the crows will get white feathers before Denis Howlan will forgive the Orangemen—bad luck to them.’ “‘I recollect,’ returned the Exile, ‘a part of your story, but the apprehensions I was under when I first heard it, prevented me from attending to the whole. Was not your father murdered?’ “‘Murdherd!’ repeated Howlan; ‘ay, murdherd over and over again; and wasn’t I murdherd myself? But,’ he continued, ‘I’ll just tell it all here to you both.’ Then, drawing his stool close to where we sat, he proceeded:— “‘My father, (Lord be marciful to his sowl in glory!) kept a snug little farm on the righthand side of the road that goes from Gorey to Ferns; and, though I say it, there was not a more _sasty_ man in the county of Wexford. I, myself, was the youngest of three sons and two daughters, and the devil a more genteeler family attended Mass of a Sunday than Paddy Howlan’s. My two brothers were able strapping fellows, and faith, there were worse boys in the parish than myself. You may be sure we were real _Crappies_, and why but we should for our religion and country? “‘The winter before the Rebellion, the Yeo’s[2] were out every night, and dreadful work they made of it—burning, whipping, and shooting.—A poor Catholic couldn’t live at all at all; and, as we expected that they would give us a call; we hid our pikes and guns in the ditches, and, to be sure, appeared as innocent as lambs. I shall never forget the 15th of November; no, never, while there is a drop of Irish blood in my soul; for, when I think of it, my brain boils, and my very flesh creeps, as if there was a blister all over me. Well, as I was saying, on the 15th of November, I was coming home from Enniscorthy market; and being after taking a glass of the _creature_ with one friend or another, I was pretty merry, and to make the road light, I was singing ‘_The Victim of Tyranny_,’ and the ould mare a-self was so pleased with the tune, that she kept the track as straight as a die, though the night was as dark as pitch.