The night was falling as he once more ascended the steep and narrow causeway, which led to the old keep; and here, now, Kerry O'Leary was closing the heavy but time-worn gate, and fastening it with many a bolt and bar, as though aught within could merit so much precaution. The sound of wheels seemed suddenly to have caught the huntsman's ear, for he hastily shut down the massive hasp that secured the bar of the gate, and as quickly opened a little latched window, which, barred with iron, resembled the grated aperture of a convent door. [Illustration: 127] “You're late this time, any how,” cried Kerry. “Tramp back again, friend, the way you came; and be thankful it's myself seen you; for, by the blessed Father, if it was Master Mark was here, you'd carry away more lead in your skirts than you'd like.” “What, Kerry?--what's that you're saying?” said the astonished doctor; “don't you know me, man?” “Kerry's my name, sure enough; but artful as you are, you'll just keep the other side of the door. Be off now, in God's name. 'Tis a fair warning I give you; and faix if you won't listen to my son, you might hear worse;” and as he spoke, that ominous sound, the click of a gun-cock, was heard, and the muzzle of a carbine peeped between the iron bars. “Tear-and-ounds! ye scoundrel! you're not going to fire a bullet at me?” “'Tis slugs they are,” was the reply, as Kerry adjusted the piece, and seemed to take as good an aim as the darkness permitted; “divil a more nor slugs, as you'll know soon. I'll count three, now, and may I never wear boots, if I don't blaze, if you're not gone before it's over. Here's one,” shouted he, in a louder key. “The saints protect me, but I'll be murdered,” muttered old Roach, blessing himself, but unable from terror to speak aloud, or stir frozen the spot. “Here's two!” cried Kerry, still louder. “I'm going!--I'm going! give me time to leave this blasted place; bad luck to the day and the hour I ever saw it.” “It's too late,” shouted Kerry. “Here's three!” and as he spoke bang went the piece, and a shower of slugs and duck-shot came peppering over the head and counter of the old pony; for in his fright, Roach had fallen on his knees to pray. The wretched quadruped, thus rudely saluted, gave a plunge and a kick, and then wheeled about with an alacrity long forgotten, and scampered down the causeway with the old gig at his heels, rattling as if it were coming in pieces. Kerry broke into a roar of laughter, and screamed out-- “I'll give you another yet, begorra! that's only a true copy; but you'll get the original now, you ould varmint!” A heavy groan from the wretched doctor, as he sank in a faint, was the only response; for in his fear he thought the contents of the piece were in his body.