e attitude of an Indian
monster, sat Corny Delany. To keep himself from the cold, he had
wrapped himself up in his master's cloak, and the only part of his face
perceptible was the little wrinkled forehead, and the malicious-looking
fiery eyes beneath it, firmly fixed on the duke's countenance.

'Give me your sword,' said his grace, turning to me, in a tone half
sleeping, half commanding; 'give me your sword, sir!'

Drawing it from the scabbard, I presented it respectfully.

'Stand a little on one side, Hinton. Where is he? Ah! quite right. Kneel
down, sir; kneel down, I say!' These words, addressed to Corny, produced
no other movement in him than a slight change in his attitude, to enable
him to extend his expanded hand above his eyes, and take a clearer view
of the duke.

'Does he hear me, Hinton? Do you hear me, sir?'

'Do you hear his grace?' said I, endeavouring with a sharp kick of my
foot to assist his perceptions.

'To be sure I hear him,' said Corny; 'why wouldn't I hear him?'

'Kneel down, then,' said I.

'Devil a bit of me'll kneel down. Don't I know what he's after well
enough? _Ach na bocklish!_ Sorrow else he ever does nor make fun of
people.'

'Kneel down, sir!' said his grace, in an accent there was no refusing to
obey. 'What is your name?'

'Oh, murther! Oh, heavenly Joseph!' cried Corny, as I hurled him down
upon his knees, 'that I 'd ever live to see the day!'

'What is his d----d name?' said the duke passionately.

'Corny, your grace--Corny Delany.'

'There, that'll do,' as with a hearty slap of the sword, not on his
shoulder, but on his bullet head, he cried out, 'Rise, Sir Corny
Delany!'

'Och, the devil a one of me will ever get up out of this same spot. Oh,
wirra, wirra! how will I ever show myself again after this disgrace?'

[Illustration: 148]

Leaving Corny to his lamentations, the duke walked towards the door.
Here above a hundred people were now assembled, their curiosity excited
in no small degree by a picket of light dragoons, who occupied the
middle of the street, and were lying upon the ground, or leaning on
their saddles, in all the wearied attitudes of a night-watch. In
fact, the duke had forgotten to dismiss his guard of honour, who had
accompanied him to the theatre, and thus had spent the dark hours of the
night keeping watch and ward over the proud dwelling of the Rooneys. A
dark frown settled on the duke's features as he perceived the mistake,
and muttered be