“For the love o’ God, yer honor,” he exclaimed, in a high fever of excitement, “come along out to ‘em! Sure they’re that mad to lay eyes on ye, they’re ’ating each other like starved lobsters in a pot! Ould Barney Driscoll’s the divil wid the dhrink in him, an’ there he is ragin’ up an’ down, wid his big brass horn for a weapon, crackin’ skulls right an’ left; an’ black Clancy’s asleep in his drum--‘t was Sheehan putt him into it neck an’ crop--an’ ’t is three constables work to howld the boys from rollin’ him round in it, an--an--” “All right, Jerry,” said The O’Mahony; “I’ll come right along.” He put on his hat and relighted his cigar, in slow and silent deliberation. He tarried thereafter for a moment or two with an irresolute air, looking at the smoke-rings abstractedly as he blew them into the air. Then, with a sudden decision, he walked over and linked Bernard’s arm in his own. They went out together without a word. In fact, there was no need for words. CHAPTER XXX--A FAREWELL FEAST. We enter the crumbling portals of the ancient convent of the O’Mahonys for a final visit. The reddened sun, with its promise of a kindly morrow, hangs low in the western heavens and pushes the long shadow of the gateway onward to the very steps of the building. We have no call to set the harsh-toned jangling old bell in motion. The door is open and the hall is swept for guests. This hour of waning day marked a unique occurrence in the annals of the House of the Hostage’s Tears. Its nuns were too aged and infirm to go to the castle to offer welcome to the newly returned head of the family. So The O’Mahony came to them instead. He came like the fine old chieftain of a sept, bringing his train of followers with him. For the first time within the recollection of man, a long table had been spread in the reception-hall, and about it were gathered the baker’s dozen of people we have come to know in Muirisc. Even Mrs. Sullivan, flushed scarlet from her labor in the ill-appointed convent kitchen, and visibly disheartened at its meagre results, had her seat at the board beside Father Jago. But they were saved from the perils of a party of thirteen because the one-armed Malachy, dour-faced and silent, but secretly bursting with pride and joy, stood at his old post behind his master’s chair. There had not been much to eat, and the festival stood thus early at the stage of the steaming kettle and the glasses so piping hot that fingers shrank from contact, though the spirit beckoned. And there was not one less than twelve of these scorching tumblers--for in remote Muirisc the fame of Father Mathew remained a vague and colorless thing like that of Mahomet or Sir Isaac Newton--and, moreover, was not The O’Mahony come home?