“Good day, Master Andy; you have a prosperous time of it; plenty of water to work the mill, and plenty of corn to grind. Well, Captain, after all, peace is better than war.”

Andy glanced, from under his white hat, one of those undefinable looks of quiet humour, perhaps the peculiar characteristic of an Irish peasant. He made no reply, but elevated his right shoulder, and drew his left hand across the lower part of his face, as if seeking to conceal its expression; “Yer honour wouldn't be going to Taghmon this fine morning?”

“No, Captain.”

“Well, now, Mr. Collins, dear, may I make so bould just to beg that you'd lave off calling me Captain; and give me my own dacent name – Andy, as yer honour used before the ‘Ruction,’ and sure the peaceable time has lasted long enough to make ye forget it?”

“So, Captain (I beg your pardon), Andy – the peaceable times have lasted too long, you think.”

“I ax yer honour's pardon, I said no sich a thing. May-be, if it was said it would be nothin’ but the truth; but that's neither here nor there, and no business o’ mine. The government's a good government – may-be, ay – may-be, no – and the king, God bless him!” – and he lifted his hat reverently from his head – “the king's a good king!”

“Ay, ay, I remember your famous flag, made out of the green silk curtain, and garnished with real laurel leaves, mounted on the top of a sapling ash, the motto, ‘God bless the king, but curse his advisers!’”

“Well, yer honour has a mighty quare way, I must say, of repating gone-by things, and tazing a person, quite useless like.”