had done speaking,
a strong mellow voice, which I'll swear was not strange to me, said
something to them in Irish, and the next moment the windows were
shivered with bullets. Fortunately, we kept ourselves out of their
range; but at all events, we had light enough to see them put their
fire-arms to their shoulders, and time enough to stand aside. We
returned the fire instantly, but whether with any fatal effect or not
we could not say. When the smoke cleared away they had disappeared, but
early this morning traces of blood were found on the spot. A servant of
O'Driscol's, named Phil Hart, says they received no injury, for that he
followed them at a distance up as far as Darby Hourigan's, near whose
door they fired a couple of shots. Darby, it appears, joined Hart,
having been aroused by the report of fire-arms; and both, on being
discovered on their track, were fired at and wounded. Hart says it is
his blood that is on the lawn, and perhaps it may be so, but I rather
think the fellows did not escape scot-free at any rate."

"But where," asked John, "was the magistrate all this time?"

"That's precisely what I am coming to," replied Alick; "the fact was
that the martial magistrate, who, I believe in my soul, lay shivering
with terror on his bed the whole previous part of the night, on hearing
our dialogue with the Whiteboys, and the report of the fire-arms,
altogether disappeared, and it was not until two or three searches had
been made for him, that he was discovered squatted three double in the
coalhole. On hearing and recognizing our voices, he started up, and
commenced searching round him in the aforesaid coal-hole. 'Come,
sir!' he exclaimed, in a voice of most ludicrous swagger, 'come, you
scoundrel! I'll unkennel you--whoever may be afraid of you, I'm not--my
name's O'Driscol, sirra--Fitzgerald O'Driscol, commonly called for
brevity's sake, Fitzy O'Driscol--a name, sir, that ought to strike
terror into you--and if it didn't, it isn't here I'd be hunting you--out
with you now--surrendher, I say, or if you don't upon my honor and
conscience you're a dead man.' 'What's the matter, sir?' I asked--'in
Heaven's name, who have you there?' 'Who is in the coalhole, father?'
asked Fergus, with a face whose gravity showed wonderful strength
of muscle. 'Yes, gentlemen,' replied the magistrate 'heroes that you
are--riflemen from a window--upon my honor and conscience, I think
courage is like the philosopher's stone--here have