Had their tongues been unlocked by the spell of a magician, the effect could not have been more instantaneous--a perfect volley of speech followed, in which Sir Marmaduke in vain endeavoured to follow the words of any single speaker. Their rapid utterance, their vehement gesticulation, and a certain guttural mode of pronunciation, quite new to him, made them totally unintelligible, and he stood confused, perplexed, and confounded for several minutes, staring around on every side. “Do, in heaven's name, be quiet,” cried he at last; “let one or two only talk at a time, and I shall learn what you mean.” A renewal of the clamour ensued; but this time it was a general effort to enforce silence--a process which eventuated in a far greater uproar than before. “Who, or what are you?” cried Sir Marmaduke, at last losing all temper, at the continuance of a tumult there seemed no prospect of coming to an end. “We're your honour's tenants, every one of us,” shouted the crowd with one voice. “_My_ tenants!” reiterated he in horror and astonishment. “What! is it possible that you are tenants on my property? Where do you live, my poor old man?” said he, addressing a venerable old fellow, with a head as white as snow, and a beard like a patriarch's. “He does not talk any English, your honour's worship--he has only Irish; he lives in the glen beyond,” said a comely woman at his side. “And you, where do you come from yourself?” “I'm a poor widow, your honour, with six childer; and sorra bit I have, but the little garden, and the grass of a goat; and sure, fifteen shillings every half year is more nor I can pay, wid all the scrapin' in life.” Sir Marmaduke turned away his head, and as he did so, his eye fell upon a poor creature, whose bloated cheeks and swollen figure denoted dropsy. The man interpreting the look into a compassionate inquiry, broke forth in a feeble voice--“I brought the nine shillings with me, yer honour; and though the captain refused to take it, I'm sure you won't turn me out of the little place, for being a trifle late. It's the watery dropsy--glory be to God!--I'm under; but they say I'm getting better.” While the poor creature spoke, a low muttering of pity burst from those around him, and many a compassionate look, and many a cheering word was expressed by those scarce less miserable than himself.