themselves happy but in each other's society.

It was now the sixth or seventh night that Jack and Harry, as usual,
kept their lonely watch in the kitchen of the murdered man. A large
turf fire blazed brightly on the hearth, and on a bed of straw
in the ample chimney-corner was stretched old Moya in a profound
sleep. On the hearthstone, between the two friends, stood a small
oak table, on which was placed a large decanter of whisky, a jug
of boiled water, and a bowl of sugar; and, as if to add an idea of
security to that of comfort, on one end of the table were placed
in saltier a formidable-looking blunderbuss and a brace of large
brass pistols. Jack and his comrade perpetually renewed their
acquaintance with the whisky-bottle, and laughed and chatted and
recounted the adventures of their young days with as much hilarity as
if the house which now witnessed their mirth never echoed to the
cry of death or blood. In the course of conversation Jack mentioned
the incident of the strange appearance of the banshee, and expressed
a hope that she would not come that night to disturb their carouse.

"Banshee the devil!" shouted Harry; "how superstitious you papists
are! I would like to see the phiz of any man, dead or alive, who dare
make his appearance here to-night." And, seizing the blunderbuss,
and looking wickedly at Jack, he vociferated, "By Hercules, I would
drive the contents of this through their sowls who dare annoy us."

"Better for you to shoot your mother than fire at the banshee,
anyhow," remarked Jack.

"Psha!" said Harry, looking contemptuously at his companion. "I
would think no more of riddling the old jade's hide than I would