grant it was truth you were talking! But, you see, I read it myself in
the papers (or Sergeant Haggarty did, which is the same thing) that he's
coming with the Cusacks."

"With who?--with what?"

"With the Cusacks."

"What the devil do you mean? Who are they?"

"Oh, Tower of Ivory! did you never hear of the Cusacks, with the red beards
and the red breeches and long poles with pike-heads on them, that does all
the devilment on horseback,--spiking and spitting the people like larks?"

"The Cossacks, is it, you mean? The Cossacks?"

"Ay, just so, the Cusacks. They're from Clare Island, and thereabouts; and
there's more of them in Meath. They're my mother's people, and was always
real devils for fighting."

I burst out into an immoderate fit of laughing at Mike's etymology, which
thus converted Hetman Platoff into a Galway man.

"Oh, murder! isn't it cruel to hear you laugh that way! There now, alanna!
be asy, and I'll tell you more news. We've the house to ourselves to-day.
The ould gentleman's down at Behlem, and the daughter's in Lisbon, making
great preparations for a grand ball they're to give when you are quite
well."

"I hope I shall be with the army in a few days, Mike; and certainly, if I'm
able to move about, I'll not remain longer in Lisbon."

"Arrah, don't say so, now! When was you ever so comfortable? Upon my
conscience, it's more like Paradise than anything else. If ye see the
dinner we sit down to every day; and as for drink,--if it wasn't that I
sleep on a ground-floor, I'd seldom see a blanket!"

"Well, certainly, Mike, I agree with you, these are hard things to tear
ourselves away from."

"Aren't they now, sir? And then Miss Catherine, I'm taching her Irish!"

"Teaching her Irish! for Heaven's sake, what use can she make of Irish?"

"Ah, the crayture, she doesn't know better; and as she was always bothering
me to learn her English, I promised one day to do it; but ye see, somehow,
I never was very proficient in strange tongues; so I thought to myself
Irish will do as well. So, you perceive, we're taking a course of Irish
literature, as Mr. Lynch says in Athlone; and, upon my conscience, she's an
apt scholar."

"'Good-morning to you, Katey,' says Mr. Power to her the other day, as he
passed through the hall. 'Good-morning, my dear; I hear you speak English
perfectly now?'

"'_Honia mon diaoul_,' says she, making a curtsey.

"Be the powers, I thought he'd die with the laughing.

"'Well,