d, sir."

"Very well; show Moloney into the library, and tell Donovan to wait
downstairs until I send for him."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, Moloney, come to pay your rent?" says the squire, cheerfully,
entering the library and gazing keenly at the man who is awaiting him
there. He is a fellow of ordinary build, with a cringing, servile
expression and shifting eyes. He smiles apologetically, and shuffles
uneasily from one foot to the other as he feels the squire's eye upon
him.

"No, sir; I can't bring it, sir. I'd be in dhread o' my life wid the
boys to do it."

"I don't know who the gentlemen in question you designate as 'the boys'
may be," says the squire, calmly. "I can only tell you that I expect my
rent from you, and intend to get it."

"That's what I come to spake about, yer honor. But the Land League is a
powerful body, an' secret too; look at the murdher o' Mr. Herbert and
that English Lord in Faynix Park, and the rewards an' all, an' what's
come of it?"

"A good deal of hanging will come of it, I trust," says The Desmond,
hopefully. "In the mean time, I am not to be detered from doing my duty
by idle threats. I thought you, Moloney, were too respectable a man to
mix yourself up with this movement."

"I'm only a poor man, sir, but my life is as good to me as another's;
an' if I pay they'll murdher me, an' what'll become o' me then? An'
besides, I haven't it, sir; 'tis thrue for me. How can I be up to time,
wid the crop so bad this year."

"It is as good a year as I have ever known for crops," says Desmond. "I
will have no excuses of that sort: either you pay me or turn out; I am
quite determined on this point."

"Ye wouldn't give me an abatement, yer honor?"

"No, not a penny. Not to men such as you, who come here to demand it as
a right and are very well to do. There are others whose cases I shall
consider; but that is my own affair, and I will not be dictated to. On
Monday you will bring me your rent, or give up the land."

"I think ye're a bit unwise to press matthers just now," says the man,
slowly, and with a sinister glance from under his knitted brows. "I
don't want to say anything uncivil to ye, sir, but--I'd take care if I
were you. The counthry is mad hot, an', now they think they've got
Gladstone wid 'em, they wouldn't stick at a trifle."

"The trifle being my assassination," says old Desmond, with a laugh. He
draws himself up, and, in spite of his ugly face, looks almost princely.
"Tut, ma