Anyhow, he was far too proud to confess to Donal that he had done wrong--too much offended at being rebuked by one he counted so immeasurably his inferior, to do the right thing his rebuke set before him.

What did the mighty business matter! The little rascal was nothing but a tramp; and if he didn't deserve his punishment this time, he had deserved it a hundred times without having it, and would ten thousand times again.

So reasoned Fergus, while the feeling grew upon Donal that the cratur was of some superior race--came from some other and nobler world.

I would remind my reader that Donal was a Celt, with a nature open to every fancy of love or awe--one of the same breed with the foolish Galatians, and like them ready to be bewitched; but bearing a heart that welcomed the light with glad rebound--loved the lovely, nor loved it only, but turned towards it with desire to become like it.
Fergus too was a Celt in the main, but was spoiled by the paltry ambition of being distinguished.

He was not in love with loveliness, but in love with praise.