t Ahaseragh and had meditated, whether the pursuit of vermin
was worthy all the energy which he had given to it.

"You may sell those brutes of yours now, and then perhaps you'll be
able to educate your children." So Sir Nicholas Bodkin had addressed
his eldest son, as they rode home together on that occasion.

"Why so?" Peter had asked, thinking more of the "brutes" alluded to
than of the children. He was accustomed to the tone of his father's
remarks, and cared for them not more than the ordinary son cares for
the expression of the ordinary father's ill humour. But now he knew
that some reference was intended to the interruption that had been
made in their day's sport, and was anxious to learn what his father
thought about it. "Why so?" he asked.

"Because you won't want them for this game any longer. Hunting is
done with in these parts. When a blackguard like Kit Mooney is able
to address such a one as Tom Daly after that fashion, anything that
requires respect may be said to be over. Hunting has existed solely
on respect. I had intended to buy that mare of French's, but I shan't
now."

"What does all that mean, Lynch?" said Mr. Persse to Sir Jasper, as
they rode home together.

"It means quarrelling to the knife."

"In a quarrel to the knife," said Mr. Persse, "all lighter things
must be thrown away. Daly had brought a pistol in his pocket as
you heard this morning. I have been thinking of it ever since; and,
putting two and two together, it seems to me to be almost impossible
that hunting should go on in County Galway."

CHAPTER XII.

"DON'T HATE HIM, ADA."

Among those who had gone as far as Mr. Lambert's, but had not
proceeded further, had been Frank Jones. He had heard and seen what
has been narrated, and was as much impressed as others with the
condition of the country. The populace generally--for so it had
seemed to be--had risen _en masse_ to put down the amusement of the
gentry, and there had been a secret conspiracy, so that they had been
able to do the same thing in different parts of the county. Frank, as
he rode back to Morony Castle, a long way from Mr. Lambert's covert,
was very melancholy in his mind. The persecution of Mahomet M. Moss
and of the Landleaguers together was almost too much for him.

When he got home his father also was melancholy, and the girls were
melancholy. "What sport have you had, Frank?" said the father. But he
asked the question in a melancholy tone, simply