he goodly vessel perished, and
are now the beacon of the quicksand to others. You know the sad story,
of course, that I alluded to----'

'No; I am completely ignorant of the family history,' said I.

The priest blushed deeply, as his dark eyebrows met in a heavy frown;
then turning hastily towards me, he said, in a voice whose thick, low
utterance bespoke his agitation--

'Do not ask me, I beseech you, to speak further of what, had I been more
collected, I had never alluded to! An unhappy duel, the consequence of
a still more unhappy event, has blasted every hope in life for my poor
friend. I thought--that is, I feared lest the story might have reached
you. As I find this is not so, you will spare my recurring to that the
bare recollection of which comes like a dark cloud over the happiest day
of my existence. Promise me this, or I shall not forgive myself.'

I readily gave the pledge he required; and we pursued our road--not,
however, as before, but each sunk in his own reflections, silent,
reserved, and thoughtful.

'In about four days,' said Father Tom, at last breaking the silence,
'perhaps five, we'll be drawing near Murranakilty. He then proceeded, at
more length, to inform me of the various counties through which we were
to pass, detailing with great accuracy the several seats we should see,
the remarkable places, the ruined churches, the old castles, and even
the very fox-covers that lay on our route. And although my ignorance
was but little enlightened by the catalogue of hard names that fell
as glibly from his tongue as Italian from a Roman, yet I was both
entertained and pleased with the many stories he told--some of them
legends of bygone days, some of them the more touching and truth-dealing
records of what had happened in his own time. Could I have borrowed any
portion of his narrative power, were I able to present in his strong but
simple language any of the curious scenes he mentioned, I should perhaps
venture on relating to my reader one of his stories; but when I
think how much of the interest depended on his quaint and homely but
ever-forcible manner, as, pointing with his whip to some ruined house
with blackened walls and fallen chimneys, he told some narrative of
rapine and of murder, I feel how much the force of reality added power
to a story that in repetition might be weak and ineffective.

CHAPTER XXXIV. THE MOUNTAIN PASS

On the whole, the journey was to me a delightful one, and ce