“What a girl and what a life!” said he, musingly. “I must tell Martin that this will never do! What can all this devotion end in but disappointment! With the first gleam of their newly acquired power the people will reject these benefits; they will despise the slow-won fruits of industry as the gambler rejects a life of toil. Then will come a reaction--a terrible reaction--with all the semblance of black ingratitude! She will herself be disgusted. The breach once made will grow wider and wider, and at last the demagogue will take the place of the landed proprietor. Estrangement at first, next distrust, and finally dislike, will separate the gentry from the peasantry, and then--I tremble to think of what then!” As Repton had uttered these words, the sharp bang of a gun startled him, and at the same instant a young fellow sprang from the copse in front of him into the alley. His coarse fustian shooting-jacket, low-crowned oil-skin hat, and leather gaiters seemed to bespeak the professional poacher, and Repton dashed forward with his heavy riding-whip upraised towards him. [Illustration: 206] “Take care, old gentleman,” said the young man, facing about; “my second barrel is loaded, and if you dare--” “By Heaven! I'll thrash you, you scoundrel!” said Repton, whose passion was now boiling over by a sudden bound of the cob, which had nearly thrown him from the saddle,--a mischance greeted by a hearty burst of laughter from the stranger. “I fancy you have quite enough to do at this moment!” cried he, still laughing. Half mad with anger, Repton pressed his spurs to the cob's flanks, while he gave him a vigorous cut of the whip on the shoulder. The animal was little accustomed to such usage, and reared up wildly, and would inevitably have fallen back with his rider, had not the stranger, springing forward, seized the bridle, and pulled him down by main force. Whether indifferent to his own safety, or so blinded by passion as not to recognize to what he owed it, the old man struck the other a heavy blow with his whip over the head, cutting through his hat, and covering his face with blood. The young man passing his arm through the bridle, so as to render the other's escape impossible, coolly removed his hat and proceeded to stanch the bleeding with his handkerchief,--not the slightest sign of excitement being displayed by him, nor any evidence of feeling that the event was other than a more accident. “Let loose my bridle-rein,--let it loose, sir,” said Repton, passionately,--more passionately, perhaps, from observing the measured calmness of the other. “When I know who you are, I shall,” said the young man. “My name is Valentine Repton; my address, if you want it, is Merrion Square North, Dublin; and can you now tell me where a magistrate's warrant will reach _you?_” “My present residence is a house you may have seen on the side of the mountain as you came along, called, I think, Barnagheela; my name is Massingbred.”