But I trust, Sir,
with care, you know, 'twill turn out well.'
The season for trout-fishing was long past and gone, and there were no
more pleasant rambles for Dangerfield and Irons along the flowery banks
of the devious Liffey. Their rods and nets hung up, awaiting the return
of genial spring; and the churlish stream, abandoned to its wintry mood,
darkled and roared savagely under the windows of the Brass Castle.
One dismal morning, as Dangerfield's energetic step carried him briskly
through the town, the iron gate of the church-yard, and the door of the
church itself standing open, he turned in, glancing upward as he passed
at Sturk's bed-room windows, as all the neighbours did, to see whether
General Death's white banners were floating there, and his tedious siege
ended--as end it must--and the garrison borne silently away in his
custody to the prison house.
Up the aisle marched Dangerfield, not abating his pace, but with a swift
and bracing clatter, like a man taking a frosty constitutional walk.
Irons was moping softly about in the neighbourhood of the reading-desk,
and about to mark the places of psalms and chapters in the great church
Bible and Prayer-book, and sidelong he beheld his crony of the angle
marching, with a grim confidence and swiftness, up the aisle.
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