rt who, in days of agitation, then common in Ireland, might
possibly commit some act which would bring him to the sessions or
the assizes. There never was in Ireland a cheerier, braver, handsomer
fellow, nor one with such variety of mind and complexity of purpose.

He was the only child of a high-placed gentleman; he spent all the money
that came his way, and occasionally loaded himself with debt, which his
angry father paid. Yet there never was a gayer heart, a more generous
spirit, nor an easier-tempered man; though, after all, he was only
twenty-five when the words with which the tale opens were said to him.

He had been successful--yet none too successful--at school and Trinity
College, Dublin. He had taken a pass degree, when he might have captured
the highest honours. He had interested people of place in the country,
but he never used promptly the interest he excited. A pretty face, a
fishing or a shooting expedition, a carouse in some secluded tavern,
were parts of his daily life.

At the time the story opens he was a figure of note among those who
spent their time in criticizing the government and damning the Irish
Parliament. He even became a friend of some young hare-brained rebels of
the time; yet no one suspected him of anything except irresponsibility.
His record was clean; Dublin Castle was not after him.

When his young friend made the remark about the sessions and assizes,
Calhoun was making his way up the rocky hillside to take the homeward
path to his father's place, Playmore. With the challenge and the
monstrous good-bye, a stone came flying up the hill after him and
stopped almost at his feet. He made no reply, however, but waved a hand
downhill, and in his heart said:

"Well, maybe he's right. I'm a damned dangerous fellow, there's no doubt
about that. Perhaps I'll kill a rebel some day, and then they'll take me
to the sessions and the assizes. Well, well, there's many a worse fate
than that, so there is."

After a minute he added:

"So there is, dear lad, so there is. But if I ever kill, I'd like it
to be in open fight on the hills like this--like this, under the bright
sun, in the soft morning, with all the moor and valleys still, and the
larks singing--the larks singing! Hooray, but it's a fine day, one of
the best that ever was!"

He laughed, and patted his gun gently.

"Not a feather, not a bird killed, not a shot fired; but the looking was
the thing--stalking the things that never tu