The traveller saw the effect he had produced, and endeavoured to counteract its consequences, by assuming a careless and familiar tone.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "for this intrusion on your learned researches; I am a stranger in this country, and I fear have lost my way: I wish to reach the town of Dunore before nightfall, and you will render me a service in pointing out to me the nearest road."

This speech, evidently, recalled courage and confidence in him to whom it was addressed; and he slowly arose, putting the flint into his pocket, a cork into the ink-horn pendent from his button hole, and fastening a roll of paper and a pen into the cord of his hat, while he repeated,

"A false concord! sure enough; a stranger in the country!" He was now on his feet: the Commodore stood opposite to him, with his back to the setting sun, his figure cutting darkly

against its brightness; his face and features in deep shadow. The yellow light of the illuminated horizon bronzed the grotesque figure of him on whom he gazed. This person was of a low and clumsy stature; but, though evidently passed the middle age of life, was still strong and hale: the deep crimson of health burned on his slightly furrowed cheek; and his countenance gave indications of mingled simplicity

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and acuteness. There was also a certain indescribable quaint, solemn, dogmatizing importance in his look, and a wandering wildness in his eye, which were curiously and strongly contrasted; while his costume added to the characteristic peculiarity of his person. very small wig of goat's hair surmounted a few thick, bushy grey locks, which curled round his short neck, for his shirt collar was thrown open; and three coats of frize, of various colours, excluded, like the cloak of the fabulist,

both wind and sun. As he now stood, affecting to button up these coats, one after the other, he was, in fact, earnestly engaged in endeavouring to make out the traveller's features, on which his eyes were intently fixed.

"It's long," he at last observed, "since your honor was in these parts."

"I never have been in this district before," was the reply.

"Haven't you, Sir? then I renage* my remark, and requist your honor's pardon. I'll shew you the way to Dunore, Sir. I'm going it every rood myself, and lives a donny taste beyont it.”

As he spoke, he shifted his position, with the intention of obtaining a better view of the stranger's face; but apparently, in order to draw forth a ragged colt from a rocky shed: the Commodore at the same moment shifted his, and led forward his Kerry steed.

"That's a reyal ASTURIONES," observed his new companion, "and comes of a *Renage, revoke, recall.

breed of jennets brought over by us from Spain, on our way from Phoenicia: they are named Hobillers by Paulus Jovius, and Automates by Tournefort: they are of pace aisy, and in ambling wondrous swift. Its little the English Edward would have done at the siege of Calais, but for them same. Irish Hoblers. Not that we were beholden to the likes of them; having our war steeds and our chariots.

"Infrænant alii currus aut corpora saltu Subjiciant in equos."

He was now mounted on the back of his own steed; and his eyes were turned with a fixed look on the Commodore's marked profile, who rode with his head somewhat averted beside him the view he thus obtained was dim and uncertain; but still it seemed to fix his attention: there was, as he gazed, an uncertainty in his look; a something of slow, doubtful, vague recognition, as if the faint and indistinct

resemblance of some features, once known, crossed his apprehension; now lost, now caught; determined by a light, a shadow, a motion, and flitting as soon as seized. As they descended into the deepening twilight of the glen, the obscurity of half-forgotten traits thickened into darkness; the clue of association was lost, and the hitherto silent spectator withdrew his eyes, with the simple observation,

"I could swear upon my soul's savetie, that I had seen your honor afore, Sir: I disremembers me where, but that cometh of my memory, which faileth me for present things; forgetting by times that my own name is Terence Oge O'Leary, which is remarkable."

"O'Leary!" re-echoed the Commodore, in a voice of almost boyish softness and extreme emotion.

"Who calls?" exclaimed O'Leary, wildly, and suddenly checking his horse: "Who calls?" he repeated, turning full