he, "Misthur Hees, is a sthrong term;
and which, in consideration of my friendship for your family, I shall
pass over. You doubt your son's honour, as there wrote by him in black
and white?"

"You have forced him to write," said Mr. Hayes.

"The sly old divvle's right," muttered Mr. Macshane, aside. "Well, sir,
to make a clean breast of it, he HAS been forced to write it. The story
about the enlistment is a pretty fib, if you will, from beginning to
end. And what then, my dear? Do you think your son's any better off for
that?"

"Oh, where is he?" screamed Mrs. Hayes, plumping down on her knees. "We
WILL give him the money, won't we, John?"

"I know you will, madam, when I tell you where he is. He is in the hands
of some gentlemen of my acquaintance, who are at war with the present
government, and no more care about cutting a man's throat than they do
a chicken's. He is a prisoner, madam, of our sword and spear. If you
choose to ransom him, well and good; if not, peace be with him! for
never more shall you see him."

"And how do I know you won't come back to-morrow for more money?" asked
Mr. Hayes.

"Sir, you have my honour; and I'd as lieve break my neck as my word,"
said Mr. Macshane, gravely. "Twenty guineas is the bargain. Take ten
minutes to talk of it--take it then, or leave it; it's all the same
to me, my dear." And it must be said of our friend the Ensign, that he
meant every word he said, and that he considered the embassy on which he
had come as perfectly honourable and regular.

"And pray, what prevents us," said Mr. Hayes, starting up in a rage,
"from taking hold of you, as a surety for him?"

"You wouldn't fire on a flag of truce, would ye, you dishonourable
ould civilian?" replied Mr. Macshane. "Besides," says he, "there's more
reasons to prevent you: the first is this," pointing to his sword; "here
are two more"--and these were pistols; "and the last and the best of all
is, that you might hang me and dthraw me and quarther me, an yet never
see so much as the tip of your son's nose again. Look you, sir, we run
mighty risks in our profession--it's not all play, I can tell you.
We're obliged to be punctual, too, or it's all up with the thrade. If I
promise that your son will die as sure as fate to-morrow morning, unless
I return home safe, our people MUST keep my promise; or else what chance
is there for me? You would be down upon me in a moment with a posse of
constables, and have me swinging befo