“What on earth brought you and Andy Cummiskey here, noble squire? Oh! you lost your way Andy says. Well now,” he proceeded, “you know I have been many a day and night on the lookout for you; aye, could have put daylight through you many and many a time; and what do you think prevented me?” “Fear of God, or of the gallows, I hope,” replied the intrepid old man. “Well,” returned the Rapparee, with a smile of scorn, “I'm not a man--as I suppose you may know--that ever feared either of them much--God forgive me for the one, I don't ask his forgiveness for the other. No, Squire Folliard, it was the goodness, the kindness, the generosity, and the charity of the _Cooleen Bawn_, your lovely daughter, that held my hand. You persecuted my old uncle, the priest, and you would a' hanged him too, for merely marryin' a Protestant and a Catholic together. Well, sir, your fair daughter, and her good mother--that's now in heaven, I hope--went up to Dublin to the Lord Lieutenant, and before him the _Cooleen Bawn_, went on her two knees and begged my uncle's life, and got it; for the Lord Lieutenant said that no one could deny her any thing. Now, sir, for her sake, go home in peace. Boys, get their horses.” Andy Cummiskey would have looked upon all this as manly and generous, but he could not help observing a particular and rather sinister meaning in the look which the Rapparee turned on his companions as he spoke. He had often heard, too, of his treacherous disposition and his unrelenting cruelty whenever he entertained a feeling of vengeance. In his present position, however, all he could do was to stand on his guard; and with this impression strong upon him he resolved to put no confidence in the words of the Rapparee. In a few minutes the horses were brought up, and Randy (Randall) Ruah having wiped Mr. Folliard's saddle--for such was his name--with the skirt of his _cothamore_, and removed the hoar frost or rime which had gathered on it, he brought the animal over to him, and said, with a kind of rude courtesy, “Come, sir, trust me; I will help you to your saddle.” “You have not the reputation of being trustworthy,” replied Mr. Folliard; “keep back, sir, at your peril; I will not trust you. My own servant will assist me.” This seemed precisely the arrangement which the Rapparee and his men had contemplated. The squire, in mounting, was obliged, as every man is, to use both his hands, as was his servant also, while assisting him. They consequently put up their pistols until they should get into the saddles, and, almost in an instant, found themselves disarmed, and prisoners in the hands of these lawless and unscrupulous men. “Now, Squire Folliard,” exclaimed the Rapparee, “see what it is not to trust an honest man; had you done so, not a hair of your head would be injured. As it is, I'll give you five minutes to do three things; remember my uncle, the priest, that you transported.”