I started a few minutes after twelve from the inn--I on foot, the car to overtake me.' And he went on to give a narrative of his wanderings over the bog, imitating, as well as he could, the driver's conversations with him, and the reproaches he vented on his inattention to the road.

Kate enjoyed the story with all the humoristic fun of one who knew thoroughly how the peasant had been playing with the gentleman, just for the indulgence of that strange, sarcastic temper that underlies the Irish nature; and she could fancy how much more droll it would have been to have heard the narrative as told by the driver of the car.
'And don't you like his song, Mr.Walpole!' 'What, "The Wearing of the Green"?
It was the dreariest dirge I ever listened to.' 'Come, you shall not say so.

When we go into the drawing-room, Nina shall sing it for you, and I'll wager you recant your opinion.' 'And do you sing rebel canticles, Mademoiselle Kostalergi ?' 'Yes, I do all my cousin bids me.

I wear a red cloak.

How is it called ?' 'Connemara ?' Nina nodded.
'That's the name, but I'm not going to say it; and when we go abroad--that is, on the bog there, for a walk--we dress in green petticoats and wear very thick shoes.' 'And, in a word, are very generally barbarous.' 'Well, if you be really barbarians,' said Walpole, filling his glass, 'I wonder what I would not give to be allowed to join the tribe.' 'Oh, you'd want to be a sachem, or a chief, or a mystery-man at least; and we couldn't permit that,' cried Kate.
'No; I crave admission as the humblest of your followers.' 'Shall we put him to the test, Nina ?' 'How do you mean ?' cried the other.
'Make him take a Ribbon oath, or the pledge of a United Irishman.