Lestrange! The name called to mind one or two memories.

Was not the gay young officer I had once ferried across to Rathmullan a Lestrange--a kinsman of my lady; and was not Biddy McQuilkin of Kerry Keel, who once set her cap at my father, in the service of this same Lestrange's aunt in Paris?
Strange if this hot errand should concern them! All things considered, I decided that the wisest thing would be for me to put on the dead man's clothes, and make myself in general appearance as near to the description of the passport as possible.

In fact, for the rest of this journey I must be John Cassidy himself, travelling post to Paris, with a horse waiting on him at each stage, a purse full of money, a pistol, and a belt containing two urgent letters of introduction.

Little dreamed I when I sneaked out of Brest under the belly of that lumbering diligence that I was to go to my journey's end in this style! Before I started I buried the dead man, and along with him my cast-off clothes, in a pit in the wood, which I covered over with leaves and moss.

Then I mounted my horse, stuck my loaded pistol in my belt, commended my ways to Heaven, and cantered on in the face of the rosy summer dawn towards Paris..