“Well, that same's a comfort,” said the priest; “but the report was, and is, that we are to be registered. However, be that as it may, I have been a perfect Proteus. The metamorphoses of Ovid were nothing to mine. I have represented every character in society at large; to-day I've been a farmer, and to-morrow a poor man (a mendicant), sometimes a fool--a rare character, you know, in this world--and sometimes a tiddler, for I play a little.” “And which character did you prefer among them all?” asked Reilly, with a smile which he could not repress. “Oh, in troth, you needn't ask that, Mr. R.--hem--you needn't ask that. The first morning I took to the fiddle I was about to give myself up to government at once. As for my part, I'd be ashamed to tell you how sent those that were unlucky enough to ear my music scampering across the country.” “And, pray, how long is that since?” “Why, something better than three weeks, the Lord pity me!” “And what description of dress did you wear on that occasion?” asked Reilly. “Dress-why, then, an old yellow caubeen, a blue frieze coat, and--movrone, oh! a striped breeches. And the worst of it was, that big Paddy Mullin, from Mullaghmore, having met me in old Darby Doyle's, poor man, where I went to take a little refreshment, ordered in something to eat, and began to make me play for him. There was a Protestant in the house, too, so that I couldn't tell him who I was, and I accordingly began, and soon cleared the house of them. God bless you, sir, you could little dream of all I went through. I was one day set in the house I was concealed in, in the town of Ballyrogan, and only for the town fool, Art M'Kenna, I suppose I'd have swung before this.” “How was that?” asked Reilly.