Up started Larry--away ran his pursuer after him.
The safest refuge was, of course, the church,--thither ran our hero--and
after him--fiercer than the shark, swifter than the hounds--fled the
black gentleman. The church is cleared; the chancel entered; and the hot
breath of his pursuer glows upon the outstretched neck of Larry. Escape
is impossible--the extended talons of the fiend have clutched him by the
hair. "You are mine," cried the demon,--"if I have lost any of my flock,
I have at last got you." "Oh, St. Patrick!" exclaimed our hero, in horror,
--"Oh, St. Patrick have mercy upon me, and save me!" "I tell you what,
cousin Larry," said Kinaley, chucking him up from behind a gravestone,
where he had fallen--"all the St. Patricks that ever were born would not
have saved you from ould Tom Picton, if he caught you sleeping on your
post as I've caught you now. By the word of an ould soldier, he'd have
had the provost-marshal upon you, and I'd not give two-pence for the loan
of your life. And then, too, I see you have drunk every drop in the
bottle. What can you say for yourself?" "Nothing at all," said Larry,
scratching his head,--"but it was an unlucky dream, and I'm glad it's
over.
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