It was thus that, while Sir Archy believed he was pushing Talbot closely on the objects of his coming, Talbot was, in reality, obtaining from him much information about the country generally, the habits of the people, and their modes of life, which he effected in the easy, unconstrained manner of one perfectly calm and unconcerned. “The life of a fisherman,” said he, in reply to a remark of Sir Archy's--“the life of a fisherman is, however, a poor one; for though his gains are great, at certain seasons, there are days--ay, whole months, he cannot venture out to sea. Now it strikes me, that in that very Bay of Bantry the swell must be terrific, when the wind blows from the west, or the nor'-west.” “You are right--quite right,” answered M'Nab, who at once entered freely into a discussion of the condition of the Bay, under the various changing circumstances of wind and tide. “Many of our poor fellows have been lost within my own memory, and, indeed, save when we have an easterly wind----” “An easterly wind?” re-echoed Mark, lifting his head suddenly from between his hands, and staring in half-drunken astonishment around him. “Is that the toast--did you say that?” “With all my heart,” said Sir Archy, smiling. “There are few sentiments deserve a bumper better, by any who live in these parts. Won't you join us, Mr. Talbot?” “Of course I will,” said Talbot, laughing, but with all his efforts to seem at ease, a quick observer might have remarked the look of warning he threw towards the young O'Donoghue. “Here, then,” cried Mark, rising, while the wine trickled over his hand from a brimming goblet--“I'll give it--are you ready?” “All ready, Mark,” said the O'Donoghue, laughing heartily at the serious gravity of Mark's countenance. “Confound it,” cried the youth, passionately; “I forget the jingle.” “Never mind--never mind,” interposed Talbot, slily; “we'll pledge it with as good a mind.” “That's--that's it,” shouted Mark, as the last word clinked upon his memory. “I have it now,” and his eyes sparkled, and his brows were met, as he called out-- “A stout heart and mind, And an easterly wind, And the devil behind The Saxon.” Sir Archy laid down his glass untasted, while Talbot, bursting forth into a well-acted laugh, cried out, “You must excuse me from repeating your amiable sentiment, which, for aught I can guess, may be a sarcasm on my own country.” “I'd like to hear the same toast explained,” said Sir Archy, cautiously, while his looks wandered alternately from Mark to Talbot. “So you shall, then,” replied Mark, sternly, “and this very moment too.” “Come, that's fair,” chimed in Talbot, while he fixed his eyes on the youth, with such a steady gaze as seemed actually to have pierced the dull vapour of his clouded intellect, and flashed light upon his addled brain. “Let us hear your explanation.”