Long life to yer honour and her leddyship, if yell only give the loan o' yer barn, or maybe yer loft, or--' 'I'll show you the way to my barn, you idle, good-for-nothing scamp,' cried Mr Prothero, opening the door, and levelling a blow with his stick into the moonlight, that must infallibly have knocked down any one less agile than the man for whom it was intended.

As it was, the unwelcome visitor jumped aside, whilst the portly farmer tripped himself up by his own impetuosity, and fell upon the threshold.

Mrs Prothero and Netta screamed, and Shanno took hold of the beggar's arm, to prevent his escape.

But the beggar had pulled Mr Prothero up, and was beginning to sympathise with him in broad brogue, when that valiant anti-Irishman got hold of his stick again, and began to belabour the unoffending party's back most manfully.
'Enough's as good as a faist, yer honour,' cried the stranger, skipping from side to side, and evading the blows very skilfully; 'pon my sowl, yer honour 'ud do for a fair or a wake.

'Tis madam as has the heart an' the conscience for the poor Irish, an' miss, too, asthore!' The impudent fellow ran round to where Netta stood, who, in terror, went into the house, followed by the man, and after him, the rest in full hue and cry.
'Tin thousand pardons, miss,' said the man, taking off his hat and confronting Netta.
'Owen! Owen!' screamed Netta.