“We were dining together one day, at the little inn at Trois Rivières, when a messenger came from Lachégon, for the Père to administer the last rites to a 'mourant.' Maurice promised to be there in half-an-hour, but never stirred--and though three other messengers came for him, the answer was all the same--until, at last came word, '_Cest trop tard, il est mort_.' “'_Trop tard!_' said Maurice, 'not a bit of it; give me a pen and ink, and some paper.' With that he folded a piece, note fashion, and wrote-- “'Mon cher Pierre--Fais ton petit possible pour cet pauvre diable, qui s'est glissé hors du monde sans mes soins. Apparement il était bien pressé; mais tu l'arrangera pour le mieux. “'Ton viel ami.' “'Maurice Dulang. “'St. Pierre, à la Conciergerie au Paradis.' “'Put that in his mouth,' said Maurice, 'and there's no fear of him.'” “'Twas a blessed gospel he gave him,” said Mary, who did not comprehend the French portion of the story, “and sure it's as good as any thing.” “We all thought so, Mary. Poor Maurice related the story at Lyons, when he was led out to the guillotine--but though the Commissaire laughed heartily, and enjoyed it much, they had found a breviary in his portmanteau, and they couldn't let him off. Pauvre bête! To travel about the world with the 'pièce de conviction' in his possession. What, Harry, no more wine?” “I thank you, no more for me, although that claret is a temptation.” “A bouquet, every glass of it! What say you, Master Lawler--does it suit your palate?” “I begin to think it a taste cold, or so, by this time,” said Lanty; “I'm not genteel enough for wine, God help me--but it's time to turn in, any how--and there's Mary asleep already.” “I don't stir till I finish the flask,” said Jacques, firmly; “and if you won't drink, you needn't grudge me your company. It's hard to say when we meet again. You go northward, Talbot, isn't that so? “Yes, and that's the point I wish to come to--where and how shall I find a mount?--I depended on this priest you spoke of to meet me, but he has not made his appearance.” “You never fell upon your legs more fortunately--here's your man for a horse, all Ireland over. Eh, Lanty, what's to be had now?” “Devil a thing can be got for love or money,” said Lanty. “If the gentleman only told me yesterday--” “Yesterday, Master Lanty, we were riding white horses in the Western Ocean--but that's gone by--let us talk of to-day.” “My own hackney is here in the stable. If his honour likes him, I'll sell him; but he's a fancy beast, and must have a fancy price.” “Has he strength and speed for a fast ride,” said Talbot, “and will his condition bear it?” “I'll answer for it--you may push on to Cork in a hand gallop, if you give him ten minutes' rest, and a glass of whiskey at Macroom.” “That's enough--what's his price?”