“We were not over particular on that score,” said Talbot, laughing. “A few young college men seeking some days' amusement in the wild mountains of this picturesque district, could well afford to rough it for the enjoyment of the ramble.”
“You should visit us in the autumn,” said O'Donoghue, “when our heaths and arbutus blossoms are in beauty; then, they who have travelled far, tell me that there is nothing to be seen in Switzerland finer than this valley. Draw your chair over here, and let me have the pleasure of a glass of wine with you.”
The party had scarcely taken their places at the table, when Mark re-entered the room, heated and excited with the chase of the fugitives.
“They're off,” muttered he, angrily, “down the glen, and I only hope they may lose their way in it, and spend the night upon the heather.”
As he spoke, he turned his eyes to the corner of the room, where Kerry, in a state of the most abject fear, was endeavouring to extract a cork from a bottle by means of a very impracticable screw.
“Ah! you there,” cried he, as his eyes flashed fire. “Hold the bottle up--hold it steady, you old fool,” and with a savage grin he drew a pistol from his breast pocket and levelled it at the mark.
Kerry was on his knees, one hand on the floor and in the other the bottle, which, despite all his efforts, he swayed backwards and forwards.
“O master, darlin'--O Sir Archy, dear--O Joseph and Mary!”
“I've drank too much wine to hit it flying,” said Mark, with a half drunken laugh, “and the fool won't be steady. There;” and as he spoke, the crash of the report resounded through the room, and the neck of the bottle was snapped off about half an inch below the cork.
“Neatly done, Mark--not a doubt of it,” said the O'Donoghue, as he took the bottle from Kerry's hand, who, with a pace a kangaroo might have envied, approached the table, actually dreading to stand up straight in Mark's presence.
“At the risk of being thought an epicure,” said M'Nab, “I maun say I'd like my wine handled more tenderly.”
“It was cleverly done though,” said Talbot, helping himself to a bumper from the broken flask. “I remember a trick we used to have at St. Cyr, which was, to place a bullet on a cork, and then, at fifteen paces cut away the cork and drop the bullet into the bottle.”