the ring."

"Well," said I, "I do not see why the dispute, if dispute there be,
should not be settled in the ring."

"Nor I either," said Frank, "and I could wish my countrymen to choose
none other than O'Donahue. With respect to England and Bishop Sharpe . .
."

At that moment a voice sounded close by me: "Coach, your honour, coach?
Will carry you anywhere you like." I stopped, and lo the man of the
greatcoat and glazed hat stood by my side.

"What do you want?" said I. "Have you brought me any message from your
master?"

"Master? What master? Oh! you mean the captain. I left him rubbing his
head. No, I don't think you will hear anything from him in a hurry; he
has had enough of you. All I wish to know is whether you wish to ride."

"I thought you were the captain's servant."

"Yes, I look after the spavined roan on which he rides about the Park,
but he's no master of mine--he doesn't pay me. Who cares? I don't serve
him for money. I like to hear his talk about Bishop Sharpe and beating
the English--Lord help him! Now, where do you wish to go? Any coach you
like--any coachman--and nothing to pay."

"Why do you wish me to ride?" said I.

"Why, for serving out as you did that poor silly captain. I think what
he got will satisfy him for a time. No more talk about Bishop Sharpe for
a week at least. Come, come along, both of you. The stand is close by,
and I'll drive you myself."

"Will you ride?" said I to Francis Ardry.

"No," said Frank.

"Then come alone. Where shall I drive you?"

"To London Bridge."]

CHAPTER XL.

So I went to London Bridge, and again took my station on the spot by the
booth where I had stood on the former occasion. The booth, however, was
empty; neither the apple-woman nor her stall were to be seen. I looked
over the balustrade upon the river; the tide was now, as before, rolling
beneath the arch with frightful impetuosity. As I gazed upon the eddies
of the whirlpool, I thought within myself how soon human life would
become extinct there; a plunge, a convulsive flounder, and all would be
over. When I last stood over that abyss I had felt a kind of impulse--a
fascination: I had resisted it--I did not plunge into it. At present I
felt a kind of impulse to plunge; but the impulse was of a different
kind; it proceeded from a loathing of life. I looked wistfully at the
eddies--what had I to live for?--what, indeed! I thought of Brandt and
Struensee, and