These were the last words he ever uttered. Thady was soon close to him, and with the heavy stick he always carried in his hand, he struck him violently upon the head. Ussher, when he had heard the footsteps immediately behind him, dropped Feemy, who was still insensible, upon the path; but he could not do so quick enough to prevent the stunning blow which brought him on his knees. His hat partially saved him, and he was on the point of rising, when Thady again struck him with all his power; this time the heavy bludgeon came down on his bare temple, and the young man fell, never to rise again. He neither moved nor groaned; the force of the blow, and the great weight of the stick falling on his uncovered head as he was rising, had shattered his brains, and he lay as dead as though he had been struck down by a thunder-bolt from heaven.

Though it was so dark that Thady could not see the blood he had shed, or watch how immovable was the body of the man he had attacked, still he knew that Ussher was no more. He had felt the skull give way beneath the stroke; he had heard the body fall heavily on the earth, and he was sure his enemy was dead.

At first he felt completely paralysed, and unable to do anything; but he was soon aroused by a long sigh from poor Feemy. The cold had revived her, and she now regained her senses. Thady threw his stick upon the ground, and stooping to lift her up, said,

"Oh! Feemy, Feemy, what have you brought upon me!"

When she recognised her brother's voice, and found that she was in his arms, she said,

"Where am I, Thady? What have you done with him? Where is he?"

"Never mind now. He's gone—come to the house."

"Gone!—he's not gone; don't I know he would not go without me?" and then escaping from her brother's arms, she screamed, "Myles, Myles!—what have you done with him? I'll not stir with you till you tell me where he is!" and then the poor girl shuddered, and added, "Oh! I'm cold, so miserably cold!"

"Come to the house with me, Feemy;—this is no place for you now."

"I'll not go with you, Thady. It's no use, for you shan't make me; tell me what you've done with him—I'll go nowhere without him."

Thady paused a minute, thinking what he'd say, and then replied: "You'll never go with him now, Feemy, for Captain Ussher is dead!"

Feemy only repeated the last word after her brother, and again fell insensible on the ground.

Thady at length succeeded in getting her to the house; and pushing open the front door, which was still unlatched, with his foot, took her into her own room on the left hand side of the passage, and deposited her still insensible on the sofa. He then went into the kitchen, and sent Katty to her assistance.

Pat Brady was sitting over the kitchen fire, smoking. Though this man was still hanging about the place, and had not come to an actual rupture with his master, still there had been no cordiality or confidence between them since Brady had failed to induce Thady to keep his appointment at the widow Mulready's; and for the last two days not even a single word had passed between them. Now, however, there was no one else but Pat about the place, and Thady felt that he must tell some one of the deed that he had done. It would be useless to consult his father; his sister was already insensible; the two girls would be worse than useless; besides, he could not now conceal the deed; he could not leave the body to lie there on the road.

"Brady," said he, "come out; I want to spake to you. Is there a lanthern in the place at all?"

"No, Mr. Thady, there is not," said he, without moving; "what is it you want to-night?"

"Come out, and bring a lighted candle, if you can."

Brady now saw from his master's pale face, and fear-struck expression, that something extraordinary had happened, and he followed him with a candle under his hat; but the precaution was useless, the wind blew it out at once.

"Pat," said Thady, as soon as the two were out before the front door; "Pat," and he didn't know how to pronounce the thing he wished to tell.

"Good God! Mr. Thady, what's the matther? has anything happened the owld man?"

"What owld man?"

"Your father."

"No, nothing's happened him; but—but Captain Ussher is dead!"

"Gracious glory—no! why he was laving this for good and all this night. And how did he die?"—and he whispered in his master's ear—"did the boys do for him?"

"I killed him by myself," answered Thady, in a whisper.

"You killed him, Mr. Thady ah! now, you're joking."

"Stop!" said Thady—for they were now in the avenue—"joking or not, his body is somewhere here;—and he had Feemy here, dragging her along the road, and I struck him with my stick across the head, and now they'll say I've murdhered him."

Brady soon touched the body with his foot; and the two raised it together, and put it off the path on the grass, and then held a council together, as to what steps had better be taken.

Brady, after his first surprise and awe at hearing of Ussher's death was over, spoke of it very unconcernedly, and rather as a good thing done than otherwise. He recommended his master to get out of the way; he advised him at once to go down to Drumleesh and find out Joe Reynolds; he assured Thady that the man would even now be willing to befriend him and get him out of harm's way. He told him that Reynolds and others had places up in the mountains where he might lie concealed, and where the police would never be able to find him; and that if he only got out of the way for a time, it might probably not be found murder by the Coroner, and that in that case he could return quietly to Ballycloran.

Thady listened sadly to Brady's advice, but he did not know what better to propose to himself. He remembered the last words which Reynolds had said to him, and he made up his mind to go down at once to Corney Dolan's, who was a tenant of his own, and from him find out where Reynolds was.

"But, Pat," said Thady, when he had made up his mind to the line of conduct he meant to pursue, "what shall we do with the man's body? We can't let it lie here. As I trust in God, I had no thoughts to kill him! and I would not run away, and lave the body here, as though I'd murdhered him."

"Jist lay him asy among the trees, Mr. Thady, till you're out of the counthry; and then I'll find it,—by accident in course, and get the police to carry it off. Thim fellows is paid for sich work."

"No, Pat; that wouldn't do at all. I won't have them say I hid the body; every one 'll know 'twas I did it; mind, I don't ask you to tell a lie about it; and I'll not have it left here, as though I'd run away the moment afther I struck him. We must take him into the house, Brady."

"Into the house, yer honer! not a foot of it! why, you'd have Miss Feemy in fits; and the owld man'd be worse still, wid all thim fellows coming from Carrick and sitting on the body, discoursing whether it wor to be murdher or not."

"Well, then; we'll take it to Mrs. Mehan's."

"Av you do, Mr. Thady, the country 'll have it all in no time. Howsomever, they must take it there if you choose, as it's a public; but you'd better lave it where it is, and let me send it down by and by—jist to give you an hour's start or so."

This Thady absolutely refused, stating that he would not leave the body till he had seen it deposited in some decent and proper place; and the two men took it up between them and carried it away, meaning to take it to Mrs. Mehan's. But at the avenue gate they found Fred Brown's horse and gig, exactly where Ussher had left it, excepting that the horse was leisurely employed in browsing the grass from the ditch side.

Brady soon recognised both the horse and gig as belonging to Brown Hall; and he then proposed putting the body of its former occupant in it, and driving it to the station of the police at Carrick-on-Shannon, and restoring at the same time the horse and gig to its proper owner at Brown Hall. To this scheme Thady at last agreed; but he made the man promise him, that when he got to the police at Carrick he would tell them that he, Thady, had desired him to do so; and that, instead of running away, he had not left the body till he had seen it put into the vehicle, to be carried into Carrick-on-Shannon. And with these injunctions Brady departed with his charge.



CHAPTER XXI.

THE CORONER'S INQUEST.

During the short time that elapsed between the heavy blow which had occasioned Ussher's death, and the departure of Pat Brady with the gig, a great many thoughts had passed through Thady's mind, although he had been in action the whole time. His first idea had certainly been that Ussher was carrying off Feemy against her will; the last words which Ussher had spoken before his death, and which were the only words of his that Thady had heard,—"This is d——d nonsense; you know you must come now,"—certainly were calculated to make him think so. But he soon reflected that had this been so, Feemy could not have been sitting alone in the place where Ussher found her; besides, her own conduct when she came to herself disproved it. Feemy had therefore evidently been a consenting party. Still, however, he thought that he could not but be justified in doing what he had done in his sister's defence, even though his interference was in opposition to her wishes. Then he thought of the man himself, whom he had known so long, seen so frequently, and hated so bitterly. There he was now—dead—a cold corpse—entirely harmless, and unable to injure him or his more. But Thady already felt his enemy's blood heavy on his conscience, and he would have died himself to see him rise on his feet. Thoughts as to his own safety crowded on his mind; he felt that if he intended boldly to justify the deed, he should himself declare what he had done—see that the body was properly taken care of—and give himself up at once to the police. As to the fact of his having killed the man, that he had declared to his sister before he had at all thought what his conduct ought to be, and he had done the same to Brady; it was useless for him therefore to attempt to conceal it, even if he had wished to do so. But he felt afraid to give himself up to the police; he abhorred the idea of what he thought would be the disgrace of being in confinement; and instead of going, as he at first thought to have done, at once to Father John, and telling him all that had happened, he listened to Brady's traitorous advice, and determined to take himself, at any rate for a time, to the fancied security of Joe Reynolds and his haunts.

After Brady had departed he stood on the road, till he could hear no longer the sound of the retreating wheels, and while standing there determined he would not leave the place, for the last time perhaps, till he had told his father what had happened, and ascertained whether Feemy had recovered. He reflected that it would be a dreadful thing for her to tell her father and the servants, and to be called on to explain why her brother was away; having made this resolution he walked again up to the house.

He pushed the door open, and at once went into his sister's room. Here she was still lying on the sofa, and Katty was sitting beside her—begging her mistress to tell her what was the matter. But Feemy had not spoken since she had been there; she had recovered her senses, for she held her hands before her eyes, and the tears were falling fast beneath them: but she had not spoken a word to Katty since her brother had placed her on the sofa.

When he entered the room she uncovered her eyes for a moment; but as soon as she saw him she buried her face in the pillow, and it was plain from her sobbing that she was crying more violently than before.

Thady walked up to the sofa, and as he did so the girl got up.

"Go out, Katty," said he, "I want to spake a word to your misthress, but be in the kitchen; I'll call you when I've done."

She retreated,—not, however, farther than the door, which she closed, and left the brother and sister together. The last time they had been so in that room—the last time the two had conversed alone together before, was when Thady cautioned his sister against the man he just now killed; he thought of this, but he was too generous to let the reflection dwell on his mind at such a moment.

"Feemy," he said, as he attempted to take his sister's hand—which, however, she violently drew back from him—"Feemy, I'm going to lave you a long time, and I must spake to you first,—perhaps the last words I'll ever be able to say to you at all. Feemy darling, won't you listen to me then?—eh, Feemy?"

Feemy, however, only buried her head further in the sofa, and did not answer him a word.

"I must spake a word to you," continued Thady, "about him that is now—him that was with you on the avenue. I told you, Feemy, he was dead, and what I told you then was only too true. God knows when I struck him I did not wish for that; but how was I to see him with you in his arms—carrying you off through the dark night, and from your own house, without raising my stick to strike him? I don't say this to be blaming you now, and I don't ask you to tell me why you were there; but you must know, dearest, that it was for your sake I raised my hand; and though the blow I struck has killed him you loved, you shouldn't now at such a moment turn from your brother, who has brought all this upon himself only to protect your honer and your name."

Still Feemy did not turn her face towards him, or answer him.

"Well! I know what's on your heart, and may be it's as heavy as that which is weighing on my own. I must say a word or two to the owld man, that he may not larn from sthrangers what it is his son has done; and then I must wish good-bye to Ballycloran—I trust for iver! But there's one thing I'll ask you, Feemy, before I go. There 'll be men from Carrick here before the night is over, looking for me; and when they come, they'll be asking you all manner of questions about this deed; tell them it was I that did it—but tell them how, and why I did it; tell them that it was not my purpose to kill the man, but that I could not see him dragging my sister from her house before my eyes, without raising my stick against the man that was doing it; that, Feemy, is all I want of you,"—and he turned to go, but when he reached the door, he returned, and putting his hand on his sister's shoulder, said—"Sister, my own sister, will you kiss me before I lave you for so long?"

Feemy shuddered horribly as she felt his hand upon her. Thady quickly withdrew it, for he saw it was all covered with blood; Feemy, however, had seen it, for she screamed loudly—she had raised her head to answer, and at last she said—"Kiss you! no; I hate you—you're a murdherer; you've murdhered him because you knew I loved him; go away—go out of that; you'll kill me too if you stand there with his blood upon your hand!"

Thady, who had fallen on his knees to kiss his sister, now hastily jumped upon his feet, and a dark frown came upon his brow. It was just upon his lips to tell his sister to whose folly it was owing that Myles Ussher was now a corpse; but before the words had left his mouth he checked himself. Even then, at that saddest moment of all, when the horrid word he so dreaded, had been applied to him by the only person whom he really loved, he was able to restrain his passion, and was too high-minded to add to the suffering of his sister, though she was so unjust and cruel to him.

"God forgive you, Feemy," he said; "but that's a cruel word to come from you!"—and he left the room. He met the two girls in the passage, for Biddy had returned from Mrs. Mehan's, whither she had gone after Ussher had passed, and she was now horrified to find that her mistress's plans had been, as she thought, defeated by her brother, and her departure prevented.

"Good God! Mr. Thady," said she, with pretended astonishment, "what ails the misthress then?"

"Go in to her, Biddy, she'll want you; Captain Ussher is dead," and he went into his father's room.

Here a still more distressing scene awaited him. He felt that if he meant to escape he should not lose much time, but he could not leave his father in ignorance of what had taken place. Larry was sitting, as usual, over the fire with his pipe in his mouth, and was nearly asleep, when Thady came in. The noise of the closing door roused him, however; but he only put his empty glass to his lips, and when he found there was nothing in it he turned round again dissatisfied to the fire.

"Larry," said his son, "I've bad news for you."

"You've always bad news. I niver knew you have anything else."

"I'm going to lave you, father, altogether."

"Faix, then, that's no such bad news," said the cross old man. "The door's open, and you've my lave; may be we 'll do as well without you, as we're like to do with you."

Thady made no answer to this piece of silly ill-nature, but continued—"Larry, you'll be sorry to hear what I've to tell you, but I'd sooner you should hear it from me than from another. Myles Ussher is dead; it was I, father, that killed him."

At the first declaration the old man had turned round in his chair, and he sat staring at his son; but when he heard the second and more dreadful part of the story, his jaw dropped, and he sat for some time the picture of an idiot.

"He was bringing disgrace on you, Larry, and on your name; he was disgracing your family and your daughter, and myself; he was dragging Feemy away with him by night. I saw him with her, speechless and fainting in his arms, and I struck him down as he was doing it with my stick. I didn't think, father, to strike so hard, but his skull was broken, and he died without a struggle."—The old man still stared at him, and Thady continued,

"And now, father, I am going to lave you; for av I'm found here, when they come to look for me, they'll take me to prison, and may be when they come to hear the truth of it all,—and I suppose they will,—they'll see I didn't mane to kill him; but if they call it murdher, why then I trust you'll niver see me agin."

"Murdher," at last said the old man, laughing; "who doubts but that it was murdher? in course they'll call it murdher. Well, he was the only frind you'd left me, and now that you've murdhered him, you may go now; you may go now—but mind I tell you, they'll be sure to hang you."

This was old Macdermot's last address to his son. It was very evident that the poor old man had gradually become more and more imbecile during the last few days, and the suddenness of the melancholy news he now heard utterly destroyed his mind. Each, however, of the dreadful words he uttered fell with an awful appearance of intention and sane purpose on the ears of his son. He had hitherto restrained his feeling powerfully, and had shown no outward signs of strong emotion; but when his father said that there was no doubt the deed he'd done was murder, he burst into a flood of tears, and left the room without being able to articulate a word.

When the police came, which they did before the night was over, in search of Thady, they were unable to make anything of the old man; at first he took them for emissaries of Keegan's, and swore that they should not have admittance into the house, and when they were in it he endeavoured to hide himself, declaring at the same time, that he understood the law; that the money was not due till November, and that Keegan had no right to send the men there, harassing him, yet. When, however, he was made to understand that it was not about Keegan and the rents, but about the death of Ussher that they had come, he whimpered and whined, declaring that he had not murdered him; that he loved Ussher better than any one in the world—yes, better than his own children—and that for the world he would not hurt him. When at length the men explained to him that they were only there to look for Thady, he was worse than ever; for he began cursing his son dreadfully, swearing that if he had committed the murder, he would neither hide nor screen him, and finally declaring that he hoped they might catch him and hang him.

The next morning he was taken away to give evidence before the Coroner at Carrick-on-Shannon. It was the first day since the summer that he had been above a few yards from his own hall-door, and though the day was fine, he suffered much from the cold. When he got to his destination he could hardly speak; the room was greatly crowded, for the whole neighbourhood had by that time heard of the event; and when the poor old man had warmed himself by the fire, near which a seat had been procured for him, he smiled and nodded to those around, perfectly unconscious of the cause which had brought him there, but evidently thinking it must be holiday occasion.

Brady had stated to the Coroner pretty accurately what he knew, for there was nothing which it could have benefited him to falsify. The two girls proved that after Brady had started with the body, Thady had had interviews with his sister and his father, and it was necessary that both of them should be examined.

When the book, on which he was to be sworn, was handed to Larry Macdermot, he at first refused it, and when it was again tendered to him, he put it in his pocket, and made the man who gave it to him a bow. The Coroner, seeing he was in such a state of mind as rendered him unable to give evidence and unfit to be sworn, asked him some questions on the subject, but Larry instantly began to cry, and protest his own innocence, swearing, as he had done before, that he had loved Ussher better even than his own family.

It was a most melancholy sight—that poor, weak old man, whom so many of those now present had known so long, and who so very few years before had been in the full strength of manhood and health, for even now he was hardly more than fifty.

But sad as all this was, the examination of Feemy was still worse. As she had been actually present at the moment when Ussher had been killed, it was absolutely necessary that her evidence should be taken by the Coroner; and the sergeant of police, who came with a car from Carrick for them in the morning, insisted, in spite of all that she and the maids could say to the contrary, that she must accompany him back. She had got on the same car with her father; Biddy and the other girl were on the same seat with her, one on each side; but before they reached Drumsna, she was in such a state, that they could hardly keep her on the seat.

When they reached that village, the car was stopped by Father John. He had heard of the sad occurrence late on the previous evening, for Pat Brady had spared no exertions in disseminating the news of the catastrophe far and wide as he returned from Carrick. He had stopped at the priest's gate, and finding Father John absent on a sick visit, had nearly frightened Judy out of her life, by telling her what had happened. Father John had not returned home till two in the morning, and he then heard some garbled version of the story, from which he was led to believe that Thady was in custody at Carrick, for the murder of Ussher.

Early on the morning of the inquest, he went into Carrick, and there learnt from the police the truth, and ascertained the fact that an inquest was held on the body that day, and that both old Macdermot and his daughter were to be examined at it.

Up to this time Father John did not know that Feemy had left Drumsna; and though the police informed him that she had been absolutely present when the fatal blow was struck, he could not believe it, and hurried off to Mrs. McKeon's, to tell her all that he knew, and learn from her all that she could tell him.

The kind-hearted man hardly knew what he was doing, so shocked was he, and surprised by what he had heard. He could hardly believe that after what Thady had said to him, after the promises he had made, he would deliberately, and with premeditation, plan and execute Ussher's murder. Such an idea was incompatible with the knowledge that he had of Thady's disposition, and he concluded that there must have been some quarrel between the two men, in which Ussher had fallen the victim. He little dreamt when he started for Mrs. McKeon's, how much more justly the blood which had been shed was to be attributed to the sister than to the brother, or he would hardly dared again to solicit her kind offices for his protegee.

When he got to Drumsna, the McKeons were only just rising from breakfast, but Father John saw, on entering the room, from their grave and anxious faces, that they had all heard the news. Tony had been out to his fields before breakfast, and had there been told by one of the men that Ussher's body had on the previous night been taken through Drumsna to the police station at Carrick, and that it was said that Thady Macdermot, the murderer, had already escaped out of the country.

This tale Tony had communicated in a whisper to his wife, and she had afterwards told the girls. What was the good of keeping it secret? before the evening it would be known to the whole country. When Father John came in, they all crowded round him, to learn what really might be relied on as the truth of the case; but he could only tell them that it was too sure that Ussher had died by Thady's hand,—that that young man was not in custody,—and that he had been informed that Feemy herself was present when the blow had been struck.

"Feemy and their poor father," added Father John, "are to be examined to-day before the Coroner; it will be a dreadful thing for her, poor girl! to be forced to tell all her secrets, to declare all that she would most wish to conceal before the mob that will be in the room at Carrick."

"Yes," added Tony, "and to stand there without any one to support her, and to be asked questions, which if they're answered correctly, may be will hang her brother."

"I'll never believe," said Father John, "that he killed him in cold blood. Yourself, Mrs. McKeon hasn't a kinder heart within you than that young man; he never would have committed a wilful, premeditated murder; I don't think yet it will come to be so bad as what McKeon says. But when did Feemy leave this? I thought she was here, and was to stay here for some time to come."

Mrs. McKeon then explained how Feemy had insisted on returning home the morning after the ball, with the promise of returning again. After talking over the various unaccountable circumstances of the case, without once suspecting that Feemy had consented to and had actually been in the act of going off with Ussher, Mrs. McKeon agreed, at the instigation of her husband and the priest, to accompany Feemy to the inquest, and after it was over to bring her to her own house, and to allow her to remain there till something should be definitely arranged as to her future residence.

"For," said Tony, "Ballycloran will be no place for her again, nor the county either for the matter of that; but now that she's unhappy she shan't want a roof over her head; we were glad enough to see her when she held her head high, and I wouldn't advise any one to say much against her now she's in throuble—unless he wished to quarrel with me." And Tony McKeon closed his fist as much as to show that if any one did entertain so preposterous a wish he could be little better than a born idiot.

Tony then sent a message into Carrick for a postchaise, that Feemy might not be exposed to the curiosity of every one in the street by sitting on an outside vehicle; and when she arrived in Drumsna from Ballycloran, she was taken off the car on which her father was sitting, and brought into Mrs. McKeon's house. She would not, however, speak to any one, and could hardly sit on a chair without being supported. She squeezed, however, her kind friend's hand, when she promised to go to the inquest with her, and seemed grateful when she was told that she should not return to Ballycloran, but should again occupy her old quarters at Drumsna.

At length they got into the hack chaise, and were driven into the yard of the hotel where the inquest was to be held. This was the same house in which McKeon and his party had dined on the evening before the races, and there the cold stiff body of the man was lying on the same table round which he and so many others were carousing but a few hours since. There he lay, at least all that mortal remained of him, who was then so joyous, so reckless, and so triumphant, in the very room in which he had boasted, in his wilful wickedness, of the sad tragedy he was intending to inflict on those who had been so friendly to him at Ballycloran, and of which he was now himself the first victim.

The table on which he was laid out had been hastily removed for the dance, and it had now been as hastily replaced for its present purpose. The laurel wreaths with which the walls had been decorated were yet remaining, and when the Coroner entered the room his foot slipped on a faded flower, which some wearied beauty had dropped when leaving it on the previous morning. Little more than four and twenty hours had elapsed since the fiddles were playing there, and some of those who were now summoned upon their oaths to decide in what manner Ussher had met his death, had on that morning been nearly the last to leave the room in which they were now to exercise so different a vocation.

Biddy and Katty were first examined, and it was from the evidence of the former that Father John first heard that Feemy had agreed to elope with Ussher; and it appeared from what the girl said that her mistress was to have left the house some time previous to the time at which the other girl proved that she had been brought back by her brother. This added greatly to his sorrow; but at the same time, he now instantly perceived under what provocation Thady had struck the fatal blow. Brady proved that his master had confessed to him that it was he who had killed Ussher, and that he had said that when he did so his sister was in Ussher's arms. The stick was then brought forward, which was proved to be the one usually carried by Thady; and the blood upon the stick, and the nature of the wound upon the dead man's head, left no doubt that this was the weapon with which he had been killed.

The father was then brought in, and we have already seen the manner in which he conducted himself. It was now necessary to examine Feemy, and at last she came in, almost carried in Mrs. McKeon's arms, with a thick veil over her face, which, however well it hid her countenance, by no means rendered her sobs inaudible. Two chairs were placed for them by the table, and when they were both seated the book was handed to Feemy; then she had to take her glove from her right hand, and this was so wetted with her tears, and she herself was so weak, that it was long before she could get it off; and when she had taken the oath,—when she had sworn to tell not only the truth, but the whole truth,—she found it impossible to speak a word, and the Coroner was obliged to ask her questions, to which Mrs. McKeon was allowed to get the answers, spoken below her breath, and in whispers.

"Did she know Captain Ussher was dead?"

"She did."

"Did she know that it was her brother who had killed him? Was it her brother Thady?"

"Yes, it was."

"How did she know it was he who had done it? Did she see him do it?"

"No, she didn't see him."

"How then did she know it?"

"He had told her so afterwards."

"Could she say how he killed him?"

"No, she could not."

"Or why?"

To this question even Mrs. McKeon could get no answer.

"Where was she when Captain Ussher was killed?"

No answer.

"Was she with Captain Ussher?"

"She believed she was."

"Why, or for what purpose, was she with him?"

To this question, although pressed for some time, she would not answer; and Mrs. McKeon, who was up to this time totally ignorant of the locality in which Ussher had been killed, and was really unaware how it had come to pass that Feemy was present at the time, was quite unable to suggest to her what answer she ought to make; and finding that it was with difficulty she could keep Feemy from falling from her chair, she told the Coroner she was really afraid Miss Macdermot was so ill, that she would be quite incapable of answering any more questions; and she added, that considering all the circumstances of the case,—that the young lady had been engaged to the unfortunate man who was dead, and was the sister of the man who had killed him, it was not to be wondered at, if she found her dreadful position too much for her.

The Coroner answered that he was quite prepared to give Miss Macdermot every indulgence in his power, as he felt as strongly as any one could do the distressing situation in which the young lady was placed, but that it was absolutely imperative that the last question he had asked should be answered. And that he was sure when he stated that the result of the inquest very probably depended on what the answer to the question might be,—as from that the jurors would probably have to decide whether her brother was to be accused of murder, or merely homicide,—he was quite sure, he said, under these circumstances, Miss Macdermot would make an effort to answer it fully and firmly. He was willing, he added, to put the question in a form which might render it more simple for her to answer, though it would oblige him to say that which he feared would be still further distressing to her feelings.

He then told her and Mrs. McKeon, that from the evidence of the servants it had appeared that she, Feemy, had agreed to elope with Captain Ussher; and that, as far as could be judged from circumstantial evidence, she was in fact eloping with him when Thady had killed him; now, it was necessary for her to state whether she was there of her own good will, going away with him; or if not, what she was doing at the moment of the tragical occurrence.

After many fruitless attempts made by Mrs. McKeon to get an answer to this, Feemy said, through her friend, that she was sitting down.

"Does she mean that she was sitting down when the blow was struck?"

"She doesn't know where she was."

"When was she sitting down?"

"She was sitting down till Captain Ussher lifted her up."

"When Captain Ussher lifted her up, was she going away willingly with him?"

"Yes, she was."

"Did she struggle with him at all?"

"No."

"Did any of her friends know she was going with him?"

Before, however, the poor girl could be got to answer this question, she had fainted, and it was found impossible to restore her for a long time; and when she had recovered, it was only to give way to the most distressing cries and hysterical shrieks; she threw herself on the floor of the bedroom to which she had been taken, and Mrs. McKeon was afraid that she would have broken a blood-vessel in the violence of her emotions. As it was, she was for a long time spitting blood, and fell from one fit into another, until the medical man who was now with her was afraid that she would become entirely delirious.

It had long been found impossible to proceed with her examination any further. She had, however, unwittingly, and hardly knowing at the time what she was saying, given evidence against her brother which the facts of the case did not warrant.

For when Thady had first seen her, she was not going willingly with Ussher; she had then fainted, and Ussher was dragging her, apparently with violence, along the road.

When it was found in the inquest room that Feemy Macdermot could not possibly attend again, the coroner gave the jury the substance of the evidence on the case. He pointed out to them that though there could be no doubt that young Macdermot was the man by whom Captain Ussher had been killed, still if they thought there was sufficient ground for them to believe that Ussher was ill-treating his sister, and that the brother had interfered on her behalf, they should not come to the decision that murder had been committed.

The jury, after consulting for a short time, brought in a verdict of wilful murder against Thaddeus Macdermot; and, accordingly, a coroner's warrant was issued for his apprehension and trial, and was handed over to the police, that they might lose no time in endeavouring to take him prisoner.



CHAPTER XXII.

THE ESCAPE.

Thady left the house immediately after the last cruel speech his father made to him, with the tears running fast down his face. He leapt down the steps, hurried across the lawn, through the little shrubbery, and over the wall into the road. He did not dare to go alone down the avenue, and by the spot where Ussher's body had lain, and where the ground would still be moist with his blood.

His father's words still rang dreadfully in his ears—"Murdered! of course they'll call it murder! of course they'll be sure to hang you!" And then he thought of all the bearings of the case, and it seemed to him that his father must be right; that there could be no doubt but that all men would call it by that horrid name which sounded so hideously in his ears. If that which he had done was not murder, what manner in which one man could kill another would be thought so? It was now evident to him that Feemy had been with Ussher willingly—that she was there of her own consent and by appointment; and merely because she had fainted in his arms, he had struck him down and killed him. Of course his father was right; of course they would call it murder. And then again, even if he could justify the deed to himself—even if he could make himself believe that the man was at the time using violence to his sister—how could he get that proved? whereas proofs of her having consented to go off with him would no doubt not be wanting. And then again, Thady remembered—and as he did so the cold sweat stood upon his brow—how lately he had sat in company where the murder of this very man whom now he had killed had been coolly canvassed and decided on, and he had been one of those who were to be banded together for its execution. Would all this be forgotten at his trial? Would there not certainly be some one to come forward at that horrid hour, and swear these things against him—ay, and truly swear them? And then he fancied the precision with which he knew each damning word he had lightly uttered would be brought against him. Would not these things surely condemn him? Would they not surely hang him? It would be useless for him, then, to open his bosom and to declare to them how hateful—even during the feverish hours of that detested evening—the idea of murder had been to his soul. It would be useless for him to tell them that even then, at that same time, he had cautioned Ussher to avoid the danger with which he was threatened. It would be vain for him to declare how soon and how entirely he had since repented of the folly of which he had on that occasion been guilty. The stern faces by whom he would be surrounded at his trial—when he should stand in that disgraceful spot, with his head leaning on that bar so often pressed by murderers, miscreants, and thieves—would receive his protestations very differently from that benign friend who had previously comforted him in his misery. They would neither listen to nor believe his assurances; and he said involuntarily to himself—"Murder! of course they'll call it murder! of course they'll hang me!"

The oftener he thought of this, the more he hurried, for he felt that the police would be soon in search of him, and that at most he had but that night to escape from them. As these ideas crossed his mind he hastened along the lane leading to Drumleesh, sometimes running and sometimes walking, till the perspiration stood upon his brow. If it was murder that he had done—if the world should consider it as murder—then he would most probably soon be in the same condition as that criminal whose trial had so vividly occurred to his recollection a few days ago. At that time the idea had only haunted him; he had only then dreamt of the possibility of his situation being the same as that man's, and the very horror he had then felt at the bare thought had made him determined to avoid those who could even talk of the crime which would lead to that situation. But now he had of his own accord committed that crime; and how had he done it? In such a manner that he could by no possibility escape detection. Then again he tried to comfort himself by reflecting that it was not murder—that his intention had not been to murder the man; but his father's horrid words again rang through his ears, and he felt that there was no hope for him but in flight.

The moon got up when he was about half-way to his destination, and he left the road lest by chance there might be any one out at that hour who would recognise him. He crept on by the hedges and ditches, sometimes running along the bits of grass between the tillage and fences—sometimes having almost to wade through the wet bottoms which he crossed, often falling, in his hurry and in the imperfect light of the cloudy moon, till at last, tired, hot, and covered with dirt, pale with fear, and nearly overcome by the misery of his own reflections, he reached Corney Dolan's cabin. It was now about eleven o'clock; it had been past ten when he left Ballycloran, and in the interval he had traversed above five Irish miles. There was no light in the cabin, which was a solitary one, standing on the edge of a bog. Now he was there he feared to knock, as he did not know what to say to Corney when he should come to the door. Besides, he was aware that his hands and coat were soiled with blood, and he was unwilling that the inmates of the cabin should see him in that plight.

He had, however, no time to spare, and as it was necessary that he should do something, after pausing a few minutes, he knocked at the door. No one answered, and he had to knock two or three times before he was asked in a woman's voice who he was, and what he wanted there at that hour of the night. He stated that he wanted to see Corney Dolan. The woman told him that Corney Dolan wasn't at home, and that he couldn't see him. Thady knew that he lived alone with his mother, an aged woman, nearly eighty years old, and that it was she who was speaking to him now.

"Nonsense, mother," said he; "he's at home I know, and I must see him. Don't you know me?"

"Faix, then, I don't—and I don't want," said the old hag. "At any rate, Corney's not here; so you may jist go back agin, whoever you call yerself."

"But where is he, then? Can you tell me where I'll find him?"

"I can't tell you thin. What should I know myself? So now you know as much about it as I do."

"Well, then, get up and let me in. Don't you know me? I'm Corney's landlord, Thady Macdermot. I'll wait here till he comes; so get up and let me in."

There was a silence for some time; then he heard the old woman say to some one else,

"The Lord be praised! It can't be him—it can't be Mr. Thady coming here at this time of night. Don't stir I tell ye—don't stir, avick!"

"Oh! but it wor him, mother. Shure, don't I know his voice?" answered the child that the old woman had spoken to.

"I tell you it is me," shouted Thady. "Open the door, will you! and not keep me here all night!"

The child now got up and opened the door, and let him into the single room which the cabin contained. There were still a few embers of turf alight on the hearth, but not sufficient to have enabled Thady to see anything had not the moon shone brightly in through the door. There was but one bed in the place,—at the end of the cabin farthest from the door, standing between the hearth and the wall, and in this the old woman was lying. The child, about eight years, had jumped out of bed, stark naked, and now in this condition was endeavouring with a bit of stick to poke the hot embers together, so as to give out a better heat and light. But Thady was in want of neither, and he therefore desired the boy to get into bed, and upsetting with his foot the little heap which the urchin had so industriously collected together for his benefit, so as to extinguish the few flickering flames which it afforded, he sat down to try and think what it would now be best for him to do.

"Where's Corney, then," he said, "at this hour? Will he be long before he's here?"

"Not a one of me rightly knows, yer honer; maybe it 'll not be long afore he's here, and maybe it 'll not be afore the morning," said the child.

"And, maybe, not then," added his grandmother. "There's no knowing when he 'll be here; maybe not for days. I don't know what's come to them at all now—being out night skirring through the counthry; it can't come to no good, any ways."

"When Corney's at home, where does he sleep?" said Thady, looking round the cabin for a second bed, but seeing none.

"He mostly takes a stretch then down there afore the fire; but Corney's not over partickler where he sleeps. For the matter of that, I b'lieve he sleeps most out in the bog at day time."

Thady now sat down on one of the two rude stools with which the place was furnished, either to wait for Corney, or to make up his mind what other steps he would take. He had closed and bolted the door, and was just in the act of asking the old woman whether Joe Reynolds was at present living on his bit of land, or if not, where he was, when he heard footsteps coming up to the little path to the door, and the woman, sitting up in bed, said,

"There's both on 'em thin; get up, Terry, and open the door."

One of the men outside rattled the latch quietly, to let the inmates know who it was that desired admittance; and the naked boy again jumped out of bed, and opening the door, ran back and jumped in again.

Two men now entered, whom Thady, as they appeared in the moonlight through the open door, at once recognised as Joe Reynolds and Corney Dolan. He was seated close to the fire, and in the darkness and obscurity of the cabin, they did not at first perceive him.

A few moments since he had been longing for these two men who now stood before him, as the only persons on whom he could depend for security and concealment, and now that they were there he almost wished them back again, so difficult did he find it to tell them what he had to say, and to beg of them the assistance he required.

"Who the divil are you?" said Corney; "who's this you've got here, mother?—and what made you let him in here this time of night?"

"Shure it's the young masther, Corney, and he axing afther you; you wouldn't have me keeping him out in the cowld, and he waiting there to see you that ought to have been at home and asleep two hours since."

"Faix, Mr. Thady, and is that yerself?" said Corney; "well, anyway you're welcome here."

"I'm glad to see you here, Mr. Thady," said Joe; "didn't I tell you you'd be coming? though it's a quare time you've chosen. Didn't I tell you you'd be changing your mind?"

"But was yer honer wanting me, Mr. Thady," said Corney; "'deed but this is a bad place for you to come to; sorrow a light for ye or the laste thing in life; what for did you not get a light, you ould hag, when the masther came in?"

"A light is it, Corney; and how was I to be getting a light, when there's not been a sighth of a bit of candle in the place since last winter, nor likely to be the way you're going on now."

"Whisht there now," said Joe; "we'll be doing very well without a light; but why wasn't you down here earlier, Mr. Thady?—We two have just come from mother Mulready's, an' by rights, as you've come round agin, you should have been there with us."

"Never mind that, Joe, but come out; I want to spake to you."

"Did you hear the news about Ussher?" continued Joe without moving, and in a whisper which the old woman could not hear. "That blackguard Ussher has escaped out of the counthry afther all, without paying any of us the debt that he owed us, for all the evils he's done. He went away out of Mohill this night, an' he's not to be back agin; av I'd known it afore he started I'd have stopped him in the road, an' by G——d he should niver have got alive out of the barony."

"But did you hear he was gone?" said Corney.

"I did," replied Thady: "but Joe I want to spake to you, and there's no time to spare; come here," and Joe followed him to the door. "Come further; I don't want him to hear what I've to say to you;" and he walked on some little way before he continued,—"you were wishing just now that you had shed Ussher's blood?"

"Well—I wor; I suppose, Mr. Thady, you're not going to threaten me with the magisthrate again. I wor wishing it—an' I do wish it; he was the hardest man on the poor—an' the cruelest ruffian I iver knew. Isn't there my brother, that niver even acted agin the laws in the laste thing in life,—the quietest boy, as you know, Mr. Thady, anywhere in the counthry, an' who knew no more about stilling than the babe that's unborn; isn't he lying in gaol this night all along of him? an' it an't only him; isn't there more? many more in the same way, in gaol all through the counthry; an' who but him put 'em there? I do wish he was for-a-nens't me this moment, an' that I might lave him here as cowld a corpse as iver wor stretched upon the ground!"

"I tell you, Joe, av you had your wish—av you struck the blow, and the man you so hate was dead beneath your feet, you'd give all you had—you'd give your own life to see him agin, standing alive upon the ground, and to feel for one moment that you'd not his blood to answer for."

"By G——d! no, Mr. Thady; I'm not so wake; and as for answering for his blood, by the blessed Virgin, but I'd think it war a good deed to rid the counthry of such a tyrant."

"He'll niver act the tyrant again, Joe, for he is dead. I struck him down with my stick in the avenue at Ballycloran, this night, and he niver moved agin afther I hit him."

"The holy Virgin save us! But are you in arnest, Mr. Thady? D'ye main to say he's dead—that you killed him?" And after walking on a little, he said,—"By the holy Virgin, I'd sooner it had been myself; for I could have borne the thoughts of having done it better than you are like to do. An' what did you do with the body?"

"Brady took it into Carrick."

"And does Brady know it war you did it?"

"Yes, they all know it—father and all; what was the use of telling a lie about? Feemy was with him when I struck him."

"And war she going off with him? Niver mind, Mr. Thady, niver mind; it's a comfort to think you've saved your sisther from him, an' you know what a ruffian he was. By all the powers of glory there's a weight off my mind now I know he's not escaped from the counthry, where he caused so much misery, and did so much ill. But I'd a deal sooner it had been I that done it than yourself."

"I wish it war not done at all—I wish he were alive this day. What will I do now, Joe?"

"Faix, that's the question; any way, this is not the place for you any longer; they'd have you in Carrick Gaol before to-morrow night, av you were not out of this, an' far out of this too."

"Where is it you have the stills, Joe? Av I were there, couldn't I be safe, for a little time at laste, till I got some plan of getting entirely out of the counthry? Or may be when they hear the case, and how it all happened, they mightn't think it murder at all,—the Coroner I main; and then I could go home agin, or at any rate go away where I choose without hindrance; it's little I care where I was, so long as it's not in prison."

"I'm afraid, Mr. Thady, there's no hopes for you in that way. The magisthrates, with Jonas Brown at the head of them, will be a dail too willing to make a bad case of it, the divil mend them, to let you off; an' the only thing for you is, to keep out of their hands."

"Would they find me there, Joe, up in the mountains, where you have the stills?"

"They might, and they mightn't; but if you war there, an' they did find you, they'd be finding the stills too, an' the boys wouldn't like that."

"Where shall I go then? I thought you'd be able to help me. In heaven's name, what shall I do? the night's half over now; can't you think of any place where I might be, for to-morrow at any rate? I depended on you, Joe, and now you won't help me."

"There you're wrong. I'm thinking now, where is the best place for you: and by G——d as long as I can stick to you, I will; both becase you were always a kind masther to the poor, an' becase the man you killed war him I hated worse than all the world besides; but it's no asy thing to say where you'd be safest. D'you know Aughacashel, Mr. Thady?"

"I niver was there, but I know that's the name of the big mountain over Loch Allen, to the north of Cash."

"Well, that's where the stills are mostly at work now, an' that's where I was to be myself, to-morrow evening; but now we must both be there before the sun's up, for no one must see us on the road. But, Mr. Thady, how'll I do about taking you there, when you wouldn't come to Mulready's to take the oath, which all must do afore they'll be allowed among the boys that is together, or as will be together there to-morrow evening?"

Thady then promised him, that when he reached their destination, he would take any or every oath that might be proposed to him; that he would join their society in every respect, whatever might be its laws, and that if they would assist him in his present condition by affording him whatever security might be in their power, he would faithfully conform to all their rules and regulations. So far did his fears and the agitated state of his mind overcome the great repugnance which still he felt to break the solemn promise he had given Father John, and which he had so faithfully intended to keep.

Reynolds reflected that though it was contrary to their regulations to bring a stranger to the haunts where his companions carried on their illegal trade, they could hardly be unwilling to give shelter to the man who had killed the enemy whom they all so cordially hated, and to murder whom they were all sworn; particularly when his present necessity of concealment arose from the fact of his having done so. Reynolds had an idea of justice in his composition: he knew that had he murdered Ussher, his companions would have used every effort to conceal him, and to baffle his pursuers; and he was determined that they should do as much for Thady.

He went back to the cabin for Corney Dolan, and told him the story which he had just heard; and at about midnight the party started for the mountains.

Aughacashel is a mountain on the eastern side of Loch Allen, near the borders of the County Cavan—uncultivated and rocky at the top, but nevertheless inhabited, and studded with many miserably poor cabins, till within about a quarter of a mile of the summit. The owners of these cabins, with great labour, have contrived to obtain wretchedly poor crops of potatoes from the barren soil immediately round their cabins. To their agricultural pursuits many joined the more profitable but hazardous business of making potheen, and they were generally speaking, a lawless, reckless set of people—paying, some little, and others no rent, and living without the common blessings or restraints of civilization: no road, or sign of a road, came within some miles of them; Drumshambo, the nearest village, was seven or eight miles distant from them; and although they knew that neither the barrenness of their locality, nor the want of means of approach would altogether secure them from the unwelcome visits of the Revenue police or the Constabulary, still they felt sure that neither of these inimical forces could come into their immediate neighbourhood, without their making themselves aware of their approach, in time to guard against any injury which they might do them, either by removing all vestiges of their trade, or by sending those who were in fear of being taken up, into the more inaccessible portions of the mountain. On the western side of Aughacashel, immediately over Loch Allen, and about half way between the lowlands and the summit, a kind of rude limekiln had been made, apparently for the purpose of burning lime for the neighbouring land; but the very poor state of the rocky ground about, which gave signs of but little industry, afforded evidence that the limekiln had not added much to the agricultural wealth of the country. It was now at any rate made use of for other purposes, for it was in here that Joe Reynolds at present usually worked his still. There were only two cabins immediately close to it; one of which was occupied by a very old man and his daughter, but in which Corney Dolan and Reynolds resided, when they were away from Drumleesh; and the other belonged to another partner in the business, who considered himself the owner of the limekiln, and the head of the party concerned in it. This man's name was Daniel Kennedy, and to the reckless, desperate contempt of authority and hatred of those who exercised it, which characterized Reynolds, he added a cruelty of disposition, and a love of wickedness, from which the other was much more free.

This was the place to which his two guides were now conducting Thady, and where it was proposed that he should, at any rate for some time, conceal himself from those, who, it was presumed, would soon be scouring the country in search of him. It was now a bright moonlight night, and the three men hurried across the country with all the haste they could make. Little was said between them as they went, excepting observations made between Joe and his comrade, as to the characters and occupations of the residents in the various cabins by which they passed. After going for some considerable way across fields and bogs and bottom lands, they came out on a lane, running close round a small lake lying in the bed of the low hills which rose on the other side of it. The water was beautifully calm, and the moon shining immediately down upon it, gave it the appearance of a large surface of polished silver. At this spot the fields came close down to the road, and also to the water, and in the corner thus formed stood a very small poor cabin.

This lake was Loch Sheen, and it was in that cabin that Ussher had apprehended Tim Reynolds and the two other men, little more than a fortnight ago.

Joe stopped a moment when he reached the spot, till Thady, who was following the other man, had come up, and then, pointing to the low door, close to which he stood, said,

"The last deed as that ruffian did as now lies so low was in that cabin. It war there he sazed Tim, an' dragged him off with ropes round his arms, an' sent him to Ballinamore Bridewell, an' all for 'spaking a few words of comfort to an owld woman he'd known since he war a little child. I swore, Mr. Thady, that that man should be put beneath the sod before the time came round that Tim should be out agin; an' this very night I war a grieving in my heart to think that he war out of the country safe an' merry—ready agin to play the same bloody game with them among he war going; an' that I should let him go without so much as making one effort to keep my word with him! By G——d, Mr. Thady, quare as you may think it, who are now so low within yerself with what you've done, that thought was heavy on my heart this night. Had I known what way he war to travel, I'd followed him, had it been for days an' nights, till I had got one fair blow. By dad, he would niver have wanted a second. Corney what's the owld hag doing since her two sons is in gaol along with Tim?"

"Ah! thin, she's doing badly enough; she war niver from her bed since. Faix, Joe, they'll niver be out in time to bury her."

"Is it starving she is?"

"Well thin, I b'lieve that's the worst of it; that an' the agny, an' no one to mind her at all, is enough to kill an owld woman like her."

"Niver mind," replied Joe, "it will be a comfort to her any way to hear that Ussher's gone before her; not but what they'll go to different places, though." And then, after a time, he added, "Ussher's black soul has gone its long journey this night with more curses on it than there are stones on these shingles. But come on, lads, we mustn't be standing here; we must be in Aughacashel before sunrise, or else they'll be stopping us as we pass through the counthry."

And again they went through the clear bright moonlight. They passed Loch Sheen, and soon afterwards another little lake, lying also to the left of the road, and then they found themselves in the small village of Cashcarrigan. This they passed through silently and quickly and without speaking a word, and having proceeded about half a mile on the road towards Ballinamore, they again left it and took to the fields. They went along the northern margin of Loch Dieney, running where the ground was hard enough, at other times stepping from one dry sod to another, through gaps and fences, which seemed as well known to Thady's guides as the cabins in which they had passed their lives. They left Drumshambo to their left, and at about four in the morning they came to Loch Allen. Here they got upon a road which for some way skirts the eastern side of the lake, along which they ran for about a mile and a half, and then turned into a small boreen or path, and began to ascend the mountains.

"Asy boys, now," said Corney; "we're all right when we're here; an', by the powers! I'm hot," and the man began wiping his brow with his sleeve.

"What, Corney, you're not blown yet!" said the other, "an' here's Mr. Thady as fresh as a four year old. Come along, man; the sooner he's got a snug room over his head the better he'll be. You forget he's not accustomed to be out all night, and take his supper of moonshine, as you are. Come along, Mr. Thady; you'll soon be where you'll get as good a dhrop as iver man tasted, an' you'll feel a deal better when you've got a glass or two of that stuff in you."

Thady, who, in spite of Joe's compliment as to his freshness, was so weary that he could hardly drag his legs along, and who had seated himself for a moment upon one of the big loose stones which were scattered over the side of the hill, again rose, and they all resumed their journey. They soon lost the track of the boreen, but they still continued to ascend, keeping by the sides of the loose built walls with which the land was subdivided. It was astonishing what labour had seemingly been wasted in piling wall after wall in that barren place, and that even in spots where no attempt had been made at tillage, and where the only produce the land afforded was the food of a few miserable sheep and goats, which it might be thought could have grazed in safety without the necessity for all those numerous fences. These, however, after a time, ceased too; but just at the spot where the open mountain no longer showed any signs of man's handiwork, Dan Kennedy's lime-kiln was built, and immediately behind it were the two cabins of which we have before spoken.

It was at the door of the furthest of these two that Joe—did not knock—but raised the latch and rattled it. The old man within well knew the sign, and, getting out of bed, drew the wooden bolt, and admitted the three into the cabin. Though he did not expect Joe or Corney, and had not an idea who Thady was; and though Thady's dress, which was somewhat better than those worn by his usual associates, must have struck him as uncommon, he made no remark, but hobbled into bed again, merely saying, in Irish, "God save ye kindly, boys! it's a fine night ye've had, the Lord be praised!" There was a second bed in the place—if a filthy, ragged cotton tick filled with straw, and lying on the ground, could be called a bed—in which the old man's daughter was lying. It was nearly dark now out of doors, for the moon had disappeared, and it was hardly yet six o'clock; but one of the men lighted a candle, of which there were two or three hanging against the wall. The girl was not asleep, for her eyes were wide open, looking at the party, but she seemed not at all surprised by their entrance, or at the addition to their usual numbers, for she lay quite quiet where she was, as if such morning guests in her bed-chamber were no unusual thing.

Joe now got a stool for Thady; and he and Corney sat down opposite the fire, while Reynolds drew a stone jar out from beneath the old man's bed—he seemed well to know the place where it was to be found—and reaching a cracked cup down from a shelf which was fixed into the wall over the fire-place, filled it with spirits and handed it to Thady. He swallowed a considerable portion of it and returned it, when Joe filled it again, finished the contents himself, and gave it again full to Corney, who in a very short time did the same.

"By gor," said the latter, "I wanted that; an' I tell you that's not bad work. Why, Mr. Thady—"

"Have done with your Misthers, Corney," said Joe, in a whisper, "let them find out who he is theyselves. They'll know soon enough, divil doubt them! there's no good telling them yet, any how."

"That's thrue, Joe; but as I was saying, that's not bad work; why, Mr. Thady—"

"Sorrow saze yer tongue, thin, ye born idiot!"

"Well, by dad, it comes so natural to me, Joe, to call him by his own name, that one can't help it; but it war only four o'clock when we left this, this blessed afthernoon—that is, yesterday afthernoon—an' since that we wor down at Mulready's, an' then at Drumleesh, an' now we're here agin; why how many miles is that?"

"Niver mind the miles; he"—and Joe pointed to Thady—"he has done a deal more than that in the same time—an' whatever comes of it, he did a good deed. Howsomever, if you'll take my advice, you'll take a stretch now. Meg!—I say, Meg,"—and he turned round to the girl who was lying in the corner—"get out of that, an' make room for this man to lie down. You've been asleep all night; make room for yer betthers now."

The girl, without grumbling, turned out of bed, and burthened with no feeling of conventional modesty, commenced and finished her toilet, by getting into an old ragged calico gown, and tying up, with a bit of antique tape, her long rough locks which had escaped from their bondage during her sleep. Thady for a long time resisted, but Joe at last was successful in persuading him to take advantage of the bed which Meg had so good-humouredly relinquished.

"I an' Corney have still-work to do afore daylight, an' we won't be back afore it's night," said Joe, "but do you bide here, an' you'll be safe. You must put up with the pratees this day, for there's nothing better in it at all; but I'll be getting something fitter for you by night; an' av' you feel low, which you'll be doing when you wakes, mind, there's the sperrits in the jar there undher the bed; a sup of it won't hurt you now an' agin, for indeed you'll be wanting it, by yerself here all day. An' look you,"—and he led him to the door as he spoke, and pointed to the two within—"they'll soon know who you are, an' all about it; but you needn't be talking to them, you know; an' you may be quite certain, that even should any one be axing about you, they'll niver 'peach, or give the word to the police, or any one else. Av you like to go out of this during the day, don't go further than the kiln; an' av you lie there, you could easily see them miles afore they war nigh you, even av anything should put it into their heads to think of coming afther you to Aughacashel."

The two guides then took their leave of him, and Thady laid himself down on Meg's bed, and, after a time, from sheer fatigue and exhaustion, he fell asleep.



CHAPTER XXIII.

AUGHACASHEL.

At what hour he woke Thady did not know, but it was broad day, and the sun was high in the heavens; he would have slept again if he could, that he might again forget the dreadful deed which had made the last night so horrible, but he could not; he was obliged therefore to get up, and when he did so he felt himself weak for want of food. Meg it appears had gone out. The old man could not speak a word of English; but Thady could talk Irish, and he had no difficulty in getting plenty of potatoes from him, and as he was eating them the old man pulled out the jar of whiskey. Thady took part of another cup full, and then felt less sad than he had done before. After his breakfast he sat for a long time over the fire, smoked his pipe till he had no tobacco left in it, got up and sat down again, walked to the door and then again returned to his seat. At last he became dreadfully fatigued; he felt all the misery which a man, usually active, always feels when condemned for a time to idleness; he sat watching the turf, as though he could employ his mind, or interest himself in observing the different forms which the sods took, or how soon they would reduce themselves to ashes; then he counted the smutty rafters on which the crazy roof was supported, and then the different scraughs of which it was composed; he next endeavoured to think how the old man got through the tedium of his miserable existence. There he sat on the bed, quite imperturbable; he had not spoken ten words since Thady had got up, and seemed quite satisfied in sitting there enjoying the warmth of the fire, and having nothing to do. How Thady envied his quiescence! Then he began to reflect what had been this man's life; had he always been content to sit thus tranquil, and find his comfort in idleness? At last he got almost alarmed at this old man; why did not he speak to him? why did he sit there so quiet, doing nothing—saying nothing—looking at nothing—and apparently thinking of nothing? it was as sitting with a dead body or a ghost—that sitting there with that lifeless but yet breathing creature. Every now and again, as he endeavoured to fill his mind with some idea that was not distressing to him, the thoughts of the horrors of his own position would come across him—the almost certainty of detection—the ignominy of his future punishment—the disgrace to his father and his sister; and even if not detected, if left in his present concealment, the horrors of such a life as he was now leading, a few hours of which had already nearly made him frantic, nearly overwhelmed him.

He got up, and leaving his companion to himself, he went to the lime-kiln and laid himself on the top of it, looking down the mountain towards Loch Allen and Drumshambo, that he might see if any of the police were coming in search of him. The open air was for a time pleasanter than the close heat of the burning turf, and solitude by far preferable to the company of that silent old man,—but it was only for a short time that he felt the relief. The horrid inactivity of the day, joined to the weight that was on his mind, nearly drove him mad; as long as he had work to do,—while he had to dispose of the dead man's body,—while he had his father and his sister near him,—as long as he was hurrying through the country with Reynolds,—the energy of whose character had for a time relieved him,—as long as the sweat was pouring down his face, and his legs had been weary under him,—he had borne much better the misery, which he felt now he was always doomed to bear; for he had then thought less of the past and the future; but now he could occupy his mind with nothing but the remembrance of the death he had inflicted, and the anticipation of the death he was to suffer. He tried to sleep, but it was in vain; he tried to imitate that old man, and let his mind sleep, but no, he could only think—he could not but think. Oh! he said to himself, that it were all over—if it were only done—if he could only swallow up the next six months and be dead and forgotten! If he had got past that dreadful trial—that cold unfeeling prison, with the harsh noise of the large key and the fetters, the stern judge, and the twelve stern men sworn to hang him if he deserved it! If he could escape the eyes of the whole country which would then be on him; the harsh, cold, solemn words which would then be addressed to him—the sorrow of his father—the shame of his sister—and, last and worst, the horrid touch of that dread man with the fatal rope! It was not death he feared—it was the disgrace of death, and the misery of the ignominious preparations. He knew in his heart that heaven could not call it murder that he had done; but he felt equally sure that man would do so.

He lay there on the lime-kiln till the sun had already set, and then he was again driven into the cabin by the cold.

There sat that silent, still old man. He had not moved from his former position, his bare feet thrust into old ragged shoes, which in some former generation had been made for some strong man double his size, and hanging down so that his toes just reached the floor—his hands resting on the quilt on each side of him, and his head dropping on his chest. Oh, what an easy, quiet mind, thought Thady, must that man have—how devoid of care and fear must he be, to be able to sit there motionless all the live-long day, and not feel it dreary, long, endless, insupportable, as he did.

The girl was still absent, and Thady again sat himself down by the fire, the blazing turf on which gave the only signs that the old man had moved. Again he counted the rafters, counted the miserable scraps of furniture, counted the sods of turf, speculated where the turf was cut—who cut it? who was the landlord of the cabin? what rent was paid? who collected it? But a minute—half a minute sufficed for the full consideration of all these things, and again he began to reflect how long it would be before the police would find him, and drag him forth from that dreary place; how long it would be before he should feel the handcuffs on his wrist; and before the first day of his concealment had passed over, he had become almost impatient for that time; and looked forward to the excitement of his capture, which he knew must sooner or later take place, with something like a wish that it might soon occur, to relieve him from the weight of his present condition.

At last he determined to speak to his companion, and after considering for some time what he should say to him, he asked him what his name was; but Thady had spoken in his usual language, and the old man, looking up, answered that he had no English.

"What's your name?" asked Thady, in Irish.

"Andy McEvoy."

"And is this cabin your own?"

"Yes."

"And who's your landlord?"

"The mountain belongs mostly to Sir Michael."

"But don't you pay any rent?"

"No."

"And what is it you do all day long?"

"Why then mostly nothing; I'm very old."

"And what does your daughter be doing?"

"Why then I don't rightly know; she's mostly out for Dan Kennedy."

"And where do you be getting the pratees?"

"'Deed I b'lieve Meg gets them mostly from Dan's garden."

"Who does Dan pay his rent to?"

"Why then I can't be saying."

It was useless carrying on a conversation any longer with such a man. He neither interested himself about his house, his food, his landlord, or his family, and Thady again held his tongue.

Soon after dusk Meg returned; she had in the folds of her gown a loaf of bread and a very small piece of bacon, and it was evident to Thady that whatever had become of Joe and the other, they had not forgotten him or their promise to provide him with some better food than the lumpers which sufficed for Andy McEvoy and his daughter.

When the old man saw the provisions his eyes glistened a little, and he clutched the dirty quilt somewhat faster, and by the eagerness he evinced for the food it was a relief to see that he had some human feeling left. Meg boiled the bacon and some potatoes together, and when they were ready, put them on the dirty deal table before Thady; she did not seem much more communicative than her father, but she asked him civilly if he would eat, and evidently knew he was of a higher rank than those with whom she was accustomed to associate, for she went through the ceremony of wiping the top of the table with the tail of her gown. Thady eat a portion of what was given him; and as he did so he saw the old man's greedy eyes glare on him, as he still sat in his accustomed seat; it was quite horrible to see how greedy and ravenous he appeared. Thady, however, left much more than he consumed, and the girl carefully putting the bit of bread away, for his breakfast in the morning, divided the remnant of the bacon with her father.

Then the man's apathy and tranquillity vanished, and the voracity with which he devoured the unaccustomed dainty showed that though he might have no demon thoughts to rack his brain, the vulture in his stomach tortured him as violently.

Joe Reynolds and Corney returned about an hour after dark, and requested Thady to come out with them, which he did. They then told him that it was necessary that he should now take the oath, which they before warned him that he would have to take if he accompanied them to their haunts at Aughacashel. He at first felt inclined to declare that he had again changed his mind, and that instead of taking this oath and joining himself in any league with them, he was prepared to return home to Ballycloran, and give himself up to the police; but his courage failed him now that he was, as it were, in their own country, and particularly after the kindness and attention that Reynolds had showed him. He therefore followed them, and they entered together the other cabin belonging to Dan Kennedy. Dan and his wife, and another man, his brother, were there. Dan was a sullen, surly, brutal looking ruffian, about fifty years old, and his wife was a fitting mate for such a man; she was dirty, squalid, and meagre; but there was a determined look of passion and self-will about her, which plainly declared that whoever Dan bullied, he did not, and could not, bully his wife.

His brother Abraham was a cripple, having no use in either of his legs; but he had an appearance of intelligence and wit in his face, which his brother in no degree shared, and he was very powerful with his arms. It was he who chiefly made the spirits, while Dan and the others procured the barley—brought it up to Aughacashel, malted it, and afterwards disposed of the whiskey.

"Well, my hearty," said Dan, as Thady followed his guides into the cabin, where his family party were engaged drinking raw spirits round the fire, "so you've done for that bloody thief of the world, have you? Joe tells me you riz agin him quick enough when you found him at his tricks with yer sisther. Divil a toe though you stirred to come to mother Mulready's when we axed you, in spite of the oath you took on the holy cross; but you're quick enough coming among us now you're in the wrong box yourself."

"Asy, Dan," said Joe; "what's the use of all that bother now; an't he here? and hasn't he rid us of him that would have got clane off from us, but for Mr. Thady here, that struck the blow we ought to have struck?"

"Thrue for you, Joe," said Abraham; "so hould yer jaw, Dan, and give me hoult of the blessed book till I give him the oath."

"All's right," said Dan; "and I'm glad to see you here, my lad of wax, seeing what sent you; but business first and play after. I s'pose if you're maning to stay here wid us—an' by G——d you're wilcome—you'll not be saying anything agin giving me or Corney there, a bit of a line to some of your frinds at Ballycloran, to be sending you up a thrifle of money or so, or a few odd bits of duds, or may be a lump of mate or bacon, or a pound or two of sugar to swaiten the punch."

Thady looked very blank at this, for he by no means wished to be writing to his friends at Ballycloran, nor were the articles mentioned in Dan's catalogue at all too plentiful in that place; however, before he could answer, Joe indignantly scoffed at his friend's shabbiness.

"D——n it, Dan, I didn't think you war that main, to be charging a boy for the morsel he'd be ating, an' the sup he'd be taking, an' him undher a cloud, an' he afther doing us sich a sarvice."

"Av he wor one of ourselves," replied Dan; "but a gintleman the likes of him, may be, would be plased not to be beholden to the likes of us."

"Nonsense, Dan," said Joe; "don't think of giving such a line at all, Mr. Thady. I'm not so bad off, but I'll not see you wanting; you're as wilcome to everything here as daylight."

"Spake for yerself; you're mighty ready, I'm thinking, to spake for others," said Dan's helpmate; "av the gintleman's willing to help a poor man like Dan for putting a house over his head in his throubles, who's to hinder him?"

Thady, however, made them understand that he would give them no such letter to his father or his sister as they proposed, and Abraham then proceeded to administer the oath to him. By this he bound himself, first of all, never to divulge to any one, particularly not to any magistrate or policeman, or in any court of law, anything that should be done or said in that place where he now was, that might be prejudicial to any of the party. Secondly, to give all aid and assistance in his power to all those now present, and to any which might be in possession of a certain pass-word, and who might be able to answer certain questions with the fit and appointed answers, and to help in the escape or concealment of any such, when they might be either in confinement, or in dread of being arrested. And thirdly, that he would aid and assist in all schemes of vengeance and punishment which would be entered into by those with whom he was now bound, against any who attempted to molest them, but especially against all Revenue officers and their men.

To all these conditions Thady bound himself, and as he finished repeating each article after Abraham, he kissed the dirty prayer-book which that man presented to him; and having done this, he made one of the party round the fire, whilst Corney, Dan, and Joe took it by turns to go out and watch that no unexpected visitor was at hand.

When the night was tolerably advanced the three left the family of the Kennedys to themselves, and returned to Andy's cabin; and Thady having refused to allow that Meg should be again disturbed for his accommodation, they all stretched themselves upon the earthen floor before the fire, and were soon asleep.

The next morning Joe and Corney again went away early, and Thady found himself doomed to pass just such another day as the preceding one.

After giving him his breakfast Meg again also went out, and left Thady alone with her father.

By way of propitiating the old man he gave him half the bit of bread which he was eating. Andy devoured it as he had done the bacon, and then resumed the same apathy and look of idle contentment which had so harassed Thady on the previous day. This second day was more grievous, more intolerable even than the first. He walked from the cabin to the lime-kiln, and from the lime-kiln to the cabin twenty times. He went to Kennedy's cabin, to try if he could kill time by subjecting himself to the brutality of the man or his wife; but the door was locked or bolted, and there was apparently no one in it; he clambered up the hill and then down again—and again threw himself upon the walls of the lime-kiln, and looked upon the silver lake that lay beneath him. But the day would not pass—it was not even yet noon—he could see that the sun had yet a heavy space to cover before it would reach the middle of the skies. Oh heavens! what should he do? Should he sit there from day to day, when every hour seemed like an age of misery, waiting till he should be dragged out like a badger from its hole. He looked towards the village, and to different bits of road which his eye could reach, thinking that he should see the dark uniform of a policeman; but no, nothing ever was stirring—it seemed as if nothing ever stirred—as if nothing had life by day, in that lifeless, desolate spot. At length he thought to himself that he would bear it no longer; that he would not remain for a short time indebted for his food to such a man as Dan Kennedy, and then at length be taken away to the fate which he knew awaited him, and be dragged along the roads by a policeman, with handcuffs on his wrists—a show, to be gaped at by the country! No; he would return at once, and give himself up; he would boldly go to the magistrates at Carrick—declare that he had done the deed, and under what provocation he had done it, and then let them do the worst they chose with him.

After much considering, and many changes in his resolutions, he at length determined that he would do this—that as soon as it began to be dusk, he would leave the horrid mountain where he had passed the saddest hours that he had yet known, and go at once from thence to Father John, and implicitly follow the advice which he might give him.

When once he had definitely resolved on this line of conduct he was much easier in his mind; he had at any rate once more something to do—some occupation. He had freed himself from the prospect of long, weary, unending days, to be passed with that horrid man; and he was comparatively comfortable.

He determined to wait till it was nearly or quite dusk, which would be about five or half-past five o'clock, and then to leave the cabin, and making what haste he could to Drumshambo, go from thence by the road to Cashcarrigan and Ballycloran; and he calculated that he would be able to reach Father John's cottage between ten and eleven, before the priest had gone to bed; and having finally settled this in his mind, he returned to the cabin for the last time, determined manfully to sit out the remainder of the afternoon in the same apathetic tranquillity, which his enemy Andy displayed.



CHAPTER XXIV.

THE SECOND ESCAPE.

For four long hours there he remained, seated on the same stool, without moving or speaking; and for the same time there sat Andy on his bed, looking at the fire, and from time to time dragging a few sods from under the bed to throw them upon the ashes and keep up the warmth which seemed to be his only comfort. At length Thady thought it was dark enough, and without saying a word to the old man, he left the cabin and again descended the hill. He would not return by the same path by which he had come for fear he should meet Joe or Corney, or Meg—for he was unwilling that even she should see him escaping from his hiding-place. By the time that he reached Drumshambo it was dark, and it continued so till he got to Cashcarrigan, which he did without meeting any one who either recognised him or spoke to him. From thence he passed back by the two small lakes and the cabin of the poor widow who owed her misery to Ussher's energy, and across the bog of Drumleesh to the lane which would take him by Ballycloran to Father John's cottage. But before he reached Ballycloran the moon again rose bright and clear, and as he passed the spot where he more particularly wished to be shrouded by the darkness, it was so light that any one passing could not but recognise him.

He pulled his hat far over his forehead, and passed on quickly; but just as he got to the gateway he met Mary McGovery, who was on the very point of turning up the avenue to the house. The turn in the road, exactly at the spot, had prevented him from seeing her before, and she immediately recognised him.

"Holy Virgin! Mr. Thady," she said; "and is that yerself?"

"Hist, Mary, don't spake so loud—not that I care who spakes now; you see it's me; and I'm going to the Cottage. Is Father John at home?"

"And what would you do with Father John, now? Don't you know the police is afther you?"

"What matther? it's not much throuble I'll be giving thim, looking for me. I'm going to thim myself now."

"An' what for would you do that, Mr. Thady? Don't you know they found it murdher agin you? We all hoped you were out of the counthry afore this. What for would you go to the police? Time enough when they catches you."

This was the first time that Thady had heard that a verdict of murder had been found against him before the Coroner, and though it was only what he expected, nevertheless the certainty, now that it reached him, almost made him change his mind and return to Aughacashel. The remembrance, however, of that weary day, and the feeling that even though he were there, he would assuredly be ultimately taken, strengthened his resolution, and he said,

"No, Mary, I've had enough of running away already. But tell me; how's Feemy?"

"Why, thin, Mr. Thady, she's nothing much to boast of; since she was in Carrick, yesterday, she's been very bad intirely."

"What is it ails her? It's—it's that man's death, isn't it, Mary?"

"'Deed, Mr. Thady, I s'pose that war the first on it. Poor young lady! in course she feels it.—Wouldn't I feel it, av any one was to knock poor Denis on the head?—not that it's the same thing, altogether, for the Captain wasn't her lawful wedded husband.—Not that I'm saying agin you, Mr Thady, for what ye did."

"Never mind about that, Mary; what I've done is my own look out. But would Feemy see me, do you think?"

"See you, Mr. Thady! How could she see you, an' she in a raging fever in bed at Mrs. McKeon's? in course she couldn't see you."

"Good God! and is she so bad as that?"

"Faith then, she is, very bad intirely; at laste, Docther Blake says so."

"It's very well, any way, that she's at Drumsna, instead of here at Ballycloran. Mrs. McKeon must be a kind woman to take her at such a time as this. And what's the owld man doing here by himself?"

"He's very quare in his ways, they do be saying; but I didn't see him meself yet; I'm going down to mind him, meself, this blessed moment."

"Why, isn't the two girls in it still?"

"Yes, they is, Mr. Thady; but they got frighted with the quare ways the owld man brought back with him from Carrick. He's wake in the head, they say, Mr. Thady, since he war up afore the gintlemen at the inquest; an' as the two girls wor frighted with 'im, an' as I am, maybe, a bit sthronger, an' a thrifle owlder nor they, Father John said I'd better step down an' mind him a bit; an' when all was settled, that he would see my expinses war paid."

"Well, Mary, good night! Be kind and gentle with the owld man, for he's enough on him jist now to unsettle his mind, av it were sthronger than it iver was; and don't tell him you see me here, for it would only be making him more onasy."

"Good night, thin, an' God bless you, Mr. Thady," said Mary. "You've a peck of throubles on yer head, this night," she added to herself, as she walked up the avenue, "an' it's little you did to desarve 'em, onless working hard night an' day war a sin. Well, God forgive us! shure you're betther off still, than the gay man you stretched the other night;" and she went on to commence her new business—that of watching and consoling Larry Macdermot in his idiotcy.

Thady pursued his road to the Cottage, without meeting anyone else, and with some hesitation knocked at the priest's door. His heart palpitated violently within him as he waited some little time for an answer. It was about eleven, and he knew that at that hour Father John would still be up, if he were at home, though Judy would probably have retired to her slumbers. He was right in his calculation; for in a short time he heard the heavy step of Father John in the hall, and then the rusty door-key grated in the lock. Thady's knees shook beneath him as he listened to the rising latch. How should he meet Father John's eyes after what he had done? How should he find words to tell him that he had broken the solemn vow that he had taken on the holy scriptures, and had, in his first difficulty, flown to the disreputable security to be found in the haunts of such men as Joe Reynolds and Dan Kennedy. However, this he would have to tell him; for the door was now open, and there stood the priest, with his eyes fixed on Thady's sad face and soiled appearance.

Thady had not had his clothes off for the last two nights, and they now bore all the soil and stains of his two midnight walks; his countenance was pale in the extreme, and, never full or healthy, now seemed more thin and wan, than forty-eight hours' sorrow could possibly have made it. He was much fatigued, for his shoes had become soaked with water in the moist grounds through which he had passed and repassed, and his feet were blistered with his long and unaccustomed walks.

When Father John saw him, his heart melted within him at the sight of the young man's sad and melancholy figure. We already know that from the moment he had first heard of the catastrophe, he had made excuses in his own heart for Thady; and when he had heard, as he did at the inquest, that his sister had been with Ussher when he lifted his stick against him, he had not only acquitted him in his own estimation, from anything like the crime of murder, but he also felt certain that had he been in the same situation, he would most assuredly have done the same as Thady had done. He had been much surprised at the Coroner's verdict; he could not think how twelve men on their oath could call Ussher's death murder, when it so evidently appeared to him that the man stigmatised by that verdict as a murderer, had only been actuated by the praiseworthy purpose of defending his sister from disgrace and violence; and when, moreover, it was so plain that Thady's presence on the scene at the moment was accidental, and that the attack could not have been premeditated.

The jurors, however, had not been Thady's friends, as Father John was, nor were they inclined to look upon such a deed with the same lenient eyes. It appeared to them that Ussher was not using any violence to the young lady, who had herself admitted in her evidence, that she was a willing party to Ussher's proceedings. Doubtless, there might be circumstances, which at the prisoner's trial would be properly put forward in palliation of the murder, by his counsel; but with that the jury before the Coroner could have nothing to do; and on these considerations, the jurors with very little delay had come to the conclusion which had so surprised and grieved Father John. Still, however, he looked forward with almost absolute certainty to Thady's acquittal at his trial, and was by far more angry with the young man himself, at his folly in attempting to fly from justice, than he was at the deed which had put him under its power. Now, however, when he saw him pale, fatigued, harassed, and in sorrow at his door, his anger all turned to pity, and the only feeling left in his bosom led him to think how he could assuage his sufferings and comfort him in his afflictions.

Thady was the first to speak,—"Father John," he said, "I've come to give myself up; I thought I'd tell you, as I passed the door."

"Oh my son, my son!" said Father John. "Come in though, Thady, come in—till we think what's best to do in this sad time;" and they went again into the little parlour, where so short a time ago Thady had made the promise which he now had to confess he had broken.

He then gave the priest, by degrees, the whole history of the affair; he told how the different events had happened; he explained how Feemy's appearance as she lay fainting in Ussher's arms, and that man's words to her, when he declared that she must come with him, had at the moment made him think that she was being dragged away by violence; and that he had had this conviction on his mind when he raised his stick to strike. He then told Father John exactly what he had done since the occurrence, the precautions which he took respecting the body—the visit which he paid to his father and his sister, and lastly, how he had fled for the sake of security, and passed two miserable days among the mountains in Aughacashel.

"Ah! my poor boy," said Father John, "that's what I have to blame you for. What made you fly there? what made you fly anywhere? why did you not with an honest face at once place yourself in the hands of the police, from whom you must know you couldn't have remained concealed?"

"Oh, Father John, av you could feel all I felt when I first knew the man was dead—when my own sisther spurned me—and when my father told me I was a murdherer, you wouldn't wonder at my flying, av it were only for an hour."

"That's true, my boy—that's very true; and I won't ask you now where you were, or who were with you—or what folly you may have done whilst there; for I haven't the heart to blame you for what you've done in the extremity of your misery. But now, Thady, we must think of the future; of course you know, that having come to my house, and having seen me, you must at once place yourself in the hands of the police."

"In course, Father John; I was only on my way to Carrick when I called here. In truth, I wanted a kind word from you before they put me in that horrid place."

"My poor, dear boy, it's little comfort I can give you, except to tell you that we all think,—that is McKeon and I, and the rest of us,—that when the trial comes on they must acquit you—any jury must acquit you; and that till that time comes, you may be sure whatever can be done for you by the warmest friends, shall be done by us. But you know, Thady, till that time does come—till the trial is over, you must remain in prison."

"But, Father John, do you think they'll acquit me? do you think—does Mr. McKeon think, they'll not find it murder?"

"Indeed he does, Thady, and so do I; and so I'm sure does the Coroner, by what he said to the jury. I'm sure he didn't expect them to find it murder at the inquest."

"That's great comfort, Father John; but you always had comfort for me. But tell me, what's this I hear about Feemy and my father; is it thrue they're both ill?"

"I've little comfort for you in that quarter, I'm afraid; but though Feemy's ill, I don't think she's dangerously so. She will want time to bring her round; but I've no doubt time will bring her round. She has had a great deal to try her too; she was very fond of that man, though he was so unworthy of her; and it isn't easy for a girl like Feemy to get over at once the loss of him she loved so dearly."