These last words were uttered in soliloquy, and seemed to flow from a train of thought very different from that arising from the object before him. Sunk in these reflections, he drew near the window, which looked out upon the old court-yard behind the house, and where now a very considerable crowd of beggars had assembled to collect the alms usually distributed each morning from the kitchen. Each was provided with an ample canvas bag, worn over the neck by a string, and capable of containing a sufficiency of meal or potatoes, the habitual offering, to support the owner for a couple of days at least. They were all busily engaged in stowing away the provender of various sorts and kinds, as luck, or the preference of the cook, decided, laughing or grumbling over their portions, as it might be, when Sir Archibald M'Nab hurriedly presented himself in the midst of them--an appearance which seemed to create no peculiar satisfaction, if one were to judge from the increased alacrity of their movements, and the evident desire they exhibited to move off. [Illustration: 079] The ODonoghue laughed as he witnessed the discomfiture of the ragged mob, and let down the window-sash to watch the scene. “'Tis going we are; God be good to us!” “Ye needn't be cursing that way,” said an old hag, with a sack on her back, large enough to contain a child. “Eyah! the Lord look down on the poor,” said a little fat fellow, with a flannel night-cap and stockings without any feet; “there's no pity now at all, at all.” “The heavens be your bed, any way,” said a hard-featured little woman, with an accent that gave the blessing a very different signification from the mere words. “Blessed Joseph! sure it isn't robbers and thieves we are, that ye need hunt us out of the place.” Such were the exclamations on every side, intermingled with an undergrowl of the “Scotch naygur”--“the ould scrape-gut,” and other equally polite and nattering epithets. “This is no a place for ye, ye auld beldames and blackguards; awa wi' ye--awa wi' ye at once.” “Them's the words ye'll hear in heaven yet, darlint,” said an old fiend of a woman with one eye, and a mouth garnished by a single tooth. “Them's the very words St. Peter will spake to yourself.” “Begorra, he'll not be strange in the other place anyhow,” muttered another. “'Tis there hell meet most of his countrymen.” This speech was the signal for a general outburst of laughter. “Awa wi ye, ye ragged deevils; ye'r a disgrace to a Christian country.' “Throth we wear breeches an us,” said an old fellow on crutches; “and sure I hear that's more nor they do, in the parts your honour comes from.” Sir Archy's passion boiled over at this new indignity. He stormed and swore, with all the impetuous rage of one beside himself with passion; but the effect on his hearers was totally lost The only notice they took was an occasional exclamation of--