"Shure, I wasn't dhrunk enough for that. Two goes out av the little cup, an two more from the dimmyjan--not over a kupple av naggins in all!

That wudn't make me dhrunk. I've taken twice that, widout as much as thrippin in my s.p.a.che. Trath have I. Besoides, if I had been the worse for the liquor, why am I not so still?

"Thare's not half an hour pa.s.sed since I saw it; an I'm as sober as a judge upon the binch av magistrates.

"Sowl! a dhrap 'ud do me a power av good just now. If I don't take wan, I'll not get a wink av slape. I'll be shure to kape awake all the night long thinkin' about it. Ochone! ochone! what cyan it be anyhow? An'

where cyan the masther be, if it wasn't him? Howly Sant Pathrick! look down an watch over a miserable sinner, that's lift all alone be himself, wid nothin' but ghosts an goblins around him!"

After this appeal to the Catholic saint, the Connemara man addressed himself with still more zealous devotion to the worship of a very different divinity, known among the ancients as Bacchus.

His suit in this quarter proved perfectly successful; for in less than an hour after he had entered upon his genuflexions at the shrine of the pagan G.o.d--represented by the demijohn of Monongahela whisky--he was shrived of all his sufferings--if not of his sins--and lay stretched along the floor of the jacale, not only oblivious of the spectacle that had so late terrified him to the very centre of his soul, but utterly unconscious of his soul's existence.

There is no sound within the hut of Maurice the mustanger--not even a clock, to tell, by its continuous ticking, that the hours are pa.s.sing into eternity, and that another midnight is mantling over the earth.

There are sounds outside; but only as usual. The rippling of the stream close by, the whispering of the leaves stirred by the night wind, the chirrup of cicadas, the occasional cry of some wild creature, are but the natural voices of the nocturnal forest.

Midnight has arrived, with a moon that a.s.similates it to morning. Her light illumines the earth; here and there penetrating through the shadowy trees, and flinging broad silvery lists between them.

Pa.s.sing through these alternations of light and shadow--apparently avoiding the former, as much as possible--goes a group of mounted men.

Though few in number--as there are only four of them--they are formidable to look upon. The vermilion glaring redly over their naked skins, the striped and spotted tatooing upon their cheeks, the scarlet feathers standing stiffly upright above their heads, and the gleaming of weapons held in their hands, all bespeak strength of a savage and dangerous kind.

Whence come they?

They are in the war costume of the Comanche. Their paint proclaims it.

There is the skin fillet around the temples, with the eagle plumes stuck behind it. The bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s and arms; the buckskin breech-clouts-- everything in the shape of sign by which these Ishmaelites of Texas may be recognised, when out upon the _maraud_.

They must be Comanches: and, therefore, have come from the west.

Whither go they?

This is a question more easily answered. They are closing in upon the hut, where lies the unconscious inebriate. The jacale of Maurice Gerald is evidently the _b.u.t.t_ of their expedition.

That their intentions are hostile, is to be inferred from the fact of their wearing the war costume. It is also apparent from their manner of making approach. Still further, by their dismounting at some distance from the hut, securing their horses in the underwood, and continuing their advance on foot.

Their stealthy tread--taking care to plant the foot lightly upon the fallen leaves--the precaution to keep inside the shadow--the frequent pauses, spent in looking ahead and listening--the silent gestures with which these movements are directed by him who appears to be the leader-- all proclaim design, to reach the jacale unperceived by whoever may chance to be inside it.

In this they are successful--so far as may be judged by appearances.

They stand by the stockade walls, without any sign being given to show that they have been seen.

The silence inside is complete, as that they are themselves observing.

There is nothing heard--not so much as the screech of a hearth-cricket.

And yet the hut is inhabited. But a man may get drunk beyond the power of speech, snoring, or even audibly breathing; and in this condition is the tenant of the jacale.

The four Comanches steal up to the door; and in skulking att.i.tudes scrutinise it.

It is shut; but there are c.h.i.n.ks at the sides. To these the savages set their ears--all at the same time--and stand silently listening.

No snoring, no breathing, no noise of any kind!

"It is possible," says their chief to the follower nearest him--speaking in a whisper, but in good grammatical Castilian, "just possible he has not yet got home; though by the time of his starting he should have reached here long before this. He may have ridden out again? Now I remember: there's a horse-shed at the back. If the man be inside the house, the beast should be found in the shed. Stay here, _camarados_, till I go round and see."

Six seconds suffice to examine the subst.i.tute for a stable. No horse in it.

As many more are spent in scrutinising the path that leads to it. No horse has been there--at least not lately.

These points determined, the chief returns to his followers--still standing by the doorway in front.

"_Maldito_!" he exclaims, giving freer scope to his voice, "he's _not_ here, nor has he been this day."

"We had better go inside, and make sure?" suggests one of the common warriors, in Spanish fairly p.r.o.nounced. "There can be no harm in our seeing how the _Irlandes_ has housed himself out here?"

"Certainly not!" answers a third, equally well versed in the language of Cervantes. "Let's have a look at his larder too. I'm hungry enough to eat raw tasajo."

"_Por Dios_!" adds the fourth and last of the quartette, in the same sonorous tongue. "I've heard that he keeps a cellar. If so--"

The chief does not wait for his follower to finish the hypothetical speech. The thought of a cellar appears to produce a powerful effect upon him--stimulating to immediate action.

He sets his heel upon the skin door, with the intention of pushing it open.

It resists the effort.

"_Carrambo_! it's barred inside! Done to keep out intruders in his absence! Lions, tigers, bears, buffaloes--perhaps Indians. Ha! ha!

ha!"

Another kick is given with greater force. The door still keeps its place.

"Barricaded with something--something heavy too. It won't yield to kicking. No matter. I'll soon see what's inside."

The machete is drawn from its sheath; and a large hole cut through the stretched skin, that covers the light framework of wood.

Into this the Indian thrusts his arm; and groping about, discovers the nature of the obstruction.

The packages are soon displaced, and the door thrown open.

The savages enter, preceded by a broad moonbeam, that lights them on their way, and enables them to observe the condition of the interior.

A man lying in the middle of the floor!

"_Carajo_!"

"Is he asleep?"

"He must be dead not to have heard us?"

"Neither," says the chief, after stooping to examine him, "only dead drunk--_boracho--embriaguado_! He's the servitor of the Irlandes. I've seen this fellow before. From his manner one may safely conclude, that his master is not at home, nor has been lately. I hope the brute hasn't used up the cellar in getting himself into this comfortable condition.

Ah! a jar. And smelling like a rose! There's a rattle among these rods. There's stuff inside. Thank the Lady Guadaloupe for this!"