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I do not undherstan’ ut at all,’ I sez; ‘but I know,’ sez I, ‘that the divil looks out av your eyes, an’ I’ll have no share wid you. A little fun by way av amusemint where ‘t will do no harm, Larry, is right and fair, but I am mistook if ’tis any amusemint to you,’ I sez.

“‘You are much mistook,’ he sez. ‘An’ I counsel you not to judge your betters.’

“‘My betthers!’ I sez. ‘God help you, Larry. There’s no betther in this. ‘Tis all bad, as you will find for yoursilf.’

“You’re not like me,’ he says, tossin’ his head.

“‘Praise the Saints, I am not,’ I sez. ‘Fwhat I have done I have done an’ been crool sorry for. Fwhin your time comes,’ sez I, ‘ye’ll remimber fwhat I say.’

“‘An’ whin that time comes,’ sez he, ‘I’ll come to you for ghostly consolation, Father Terence,’ an’ at that he wint off afther some more divil’s business – for to get expayrience, he tould me. He was wicked – rank wicked – wicked as all Hell! I’m not construct by nature to go in fear av any man, but, begad, I was afraid av Larry. He’d come in to barricks wid his cap on three hairs, an’ lie on his cot and stare at the ceilin’, and now an’ again he’d fetch a little laugh, the like av a splash in the bottom av a well, an’ by that I knew he was schamin’ new wickedness, an’ I’d be afraid. All this was long an’ long ago, but ut hild me straight – for a while.

“I tould you, did I not, Sorr, that I was caressed an’ pershuaded to lave the Tyrone on account av a throuble?”

“Something to do with a belt and a man’s head, wasn’t it?” Terence had never given me the exact facts.

“It was. Faith, ivry time I go on prisoner’s gyard in coort I wondher fwhy I am not where the pris’ner is. But the man I struk tuk it in fair fight, an’ he had the good sinse not to die. Considher now, fwhat wud ha’ come to the Arrmy if he had! I was enthreated to exchange, an’ my Commandin’ Orf’cer pled wid me. I wint, not to be disobligin’, an’ Larry tould me he was powerful sorry to lose me, though fwhat I’d done to make him sorry I do not know. So to the Ould Rig’mint I came, lavin’ Larry to go to the divil his own way, an’ niver expectin’ to see him again except as a shootin’-case in barricks. . . . Who’s that lavin’ the compound?” Terence’s quick eye had caught sight of a white uniform skulking behind hedge.

“The Sergeant’s gone visiting,” said a voice.

“Thin I command here, an’ I will have no sneakin’ away to the bazar, an’ huntin’ for you wid a pathrol at midnight. Nalson, for I know ut’s you, come back to the verandah.”

Nalson, detected, slunk back to his fellows. There was a grumble that died away in a minute or two, and Terence, turning on the other side, went on:-

“That was the last I saw av Larry for a while. Exchange is the same as death for not thinkin’, an’ by token I married Dinah, an’ that kept me from remimberin’ ould times. Thin we wint up to the Front, an’ ut tore my heart in tu to lave Dinah at the Depot in Pindi. Consequint whin was at the Front I fought circumspectuous till I warrmed up, an thin I fought double tides. You remimber fwhat I tould you in the gyard-gate av the fight at Silver’s Theatre.”

“Wot’s that about Silver’s Theayter!” said Ortheris quickly, over his shoulder.

“Nothin’, little man. A tale that ye know. As I was sayin’, afther that fight us av the Ould Rig’mint an’ the Tyrone was all mixed together takin’ shtock ay the dead, an’ av coorse I wint about to find if there was any man that remimbered me. The second man I came acrost – an’ how I’d missed him in the fight I do not know – was Larry, an’ a fine man he looked, but oulder, by token that he had a call to be. ‘Larry,’ sez I, ‘how is ut wid you?’