"And big bad luck to ye, Major Jones, for the same, every day ye see a
paving stone," was the faint sub-audible ejaculation of Father Luke, when
he was recovered enough to speak.

"Sacristi! Que nous sommes attrappes," said the Abbe, scarcely able to
avoid laughing at the situation in which they were placed.

"Well, there's the quarter chiming now; we've no time to lose--Major
Jones! Major, darling! Don't now, ah, don't! sure ye know we'll be
ruined entirely--there now, just change it, like a dacent fellow--the
devil's luck to him, he's gone. Well, we can't stay here in the rain all
night, and be expelled in the morning afterwards--so come along."

They jogged on for a few minutes in silence, till they came to that part
of the "Duke's" demesne wall, where the first sentry was stationed. By
this time the officers, headed by the major, had quietly slipped out of
the gate, and were following their steps at a convenient distance.

The fathers had stopped to consult together, what they should do in this
trying emergency--when their whisper being overheard, the sentinel called
out gruffly, in the genuine dialect of his country, "who goes that?"

"Father Luke Mooney, and the Abbe D'Array," said the former, in his most
bland and insinuating tone of voice, a quality he most eminently
possessed.

"Stand and give the countersign."

"We are coming from the mess, and going home to the college," said Father
Mooney, evading the question, and gradually advancing as he spoke.

"Stand, or I'll shot ye," said the North Corkian.

Father Luke halted, while a muttered "Blessed Virgin" announced his state
of fear and trepidation.

"D'Array, I say, what are we to do."

"The countersign," said the sentry, whose figure they could perceive in
the dim distance of about thirty yards.

"Sure ye'll let us pass, my good lad, and ye'll have a friend in Father
Luke the longest day ye live, and ye might have a worse in time of need;
ye understand."

Whether he did understand or not, he certainly did not heed, for his only
reply was the short click of his gun-lock, that bespeaks a preparation to
fire.

"There's no help now," said Father Luke; "I see he's a haythen; and bad
luck to the major, I say again;" and this in the fulness of his heart he
uttered aloud.

"That's not the countersign," said the inexorable sentry, striking the
butt end of the musket on the ground with a crash that smote terror into
the hearts of the priests.

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