‘It was after a long time and great batin’ about the bush, that the ould count came in; but the sight of a sacret cipher did the business, and he consented.
‘“There it is,” says Mr. Brooke, “there’s the whole key to our correspondence; study it well, and I’ll bring you a sacret despatch in the evening--something that will surprise you.”
‘“On the honour of an Irish gentleman, I will,” says Mr. Brooke.
‘The count sits down on the spot and writes the letters to all the princesses and countesses in Vienna, saying that Mr. Brooke was the elegantest, and politest, and most trusty young gentleman ever he met; and telling them to treat him with every consideration.
‘“There will be another account of me,” says the master to me, “by the post; but I ‘ll travel faster, and give me a fair start, and I ask no more.”
‘And he was as good as his word, for he started that evening for Vienna, without lave or license, and that’s the way he got dismissed from his situation.’
‘And did he break his promise to the count, or did he really send him any intelligence?’
‘He kept his word, like a gentleman; he promised him something that would surprise him, and so he did. He sent him “The Weddin’ of Ballyporeen” in cipher. It took a week to make out, and I suppose they ‘ve never got to the right understandin’ it yet.’
‘I’m curious to hear how he was received in Vienna, after this,’ said I. ‘I suppose you accompanied him to that city?’
‘Troth I did, and a short life we led there. But here we are now, at the end of our journey. That’s Father Doogan’s down there, that small, low, thatched house in the hollow.’
‘A lonely spot, too. I don’t see another near it for miles on any side.’
‘Nor is there. His chapel is at Murrah, about three miles off. My eyes isn’t over good; but I don’t think there’s any smoke coming out of the chimley.’
‘He’s not at home, then, and that’s a bad job for us, for there’s not another place to stop the night in.’
‘But there will be surely some one in the house.’
‘Most likely not; ‘tis a brat of a boy from Murrah does be with him when he’s at home, and I’m sure he’s not there now.’
This reply was not very cheering, nor was the prospect itself much brighter. The solitary cabin, to which we were approaching, stood in a rugged glen, the sides of which were covered with a low furze, intermixed here and there with the scrub of what once had been an oak forest. A brown, mournful tint was over everything--sky and landscape alike; and even the little stream of clear water that wound its twining course along took the same colour from the gravelly bed it flowed over. Not a cow nor sheep was to be seen, nor even a bird; all was silent and still.