Chapter IV: Part 4

“That's a dhroll welcome, anyhow, Larry, for a man coming back among his own people.”

“'Tis a thrue one, as sure as I live in sin. The Lord help us, this is bad fortune.”

“What do you mean, Larry? What did I ever do to disgrace my name, that I wouldn't come back here?”

“'Tisn't what ye done, honey, but what's done upon ye. Oh, wirra, wirra; 'tis a black day that led ye home here.”

It was some time before Owen could induce the old man to moderate his sorrows, and relate the events which had occurred in his absence. I will not weary my reader by retailing the old man's prolixity, but tell them in the fewest words I am able, premising, that I must accompany the narrative by such explanations as I may feel necessary.

Soon after Owen's departure for England, certain disturbances occurred through the country. The houses of the gentry were broken open at night and searched for arms by men with blackened faces and in various disguises to escape recognition. Threatening notices were served on many of the resident families, menacing them with the worst if they did not speedily comply with certain conditions, either in the discharge of some obnoxious individuals from their employment, or the restoration of some plot of ground to its former holder. Awful denunciations were uttered against any who should dare to occupy land from which a former tenant was ejected; and so terrible was the vengeance exacted, and so sudden its execution, that few dared to transgress the orders of these savage denunciators. The law of the land seemed to stand still, justice appeared appalled and affrighted, by acts which bespoke deep and wide-spread conspiracy. The magistrates assembled to deliberate on what was to be done; and the only one who ventured to propose a bold and vigorous course of acting was murdered on his way homeward. Meanwhile, Mr. Lucas, whose stern exactions had given great discontent, seemed determined to carry through his measures at any risk. By influence with the government he succeeded in obtaining a considerable police-force, and, under cover of these, he issued his distress-warrants and executions, distrained and sold, probably with a severity increased by the very opposition he met with.

The measures undertaken by government to suppress outrage failed most signally. The difficulty of arresting a suspected individual was great in a country where a large force was always necessary. The difficulty of procuring evidence against him was still greater; for even such as were not banded in the conspiracy, had a greater dread of the reproach of informer, than of any other imputation; and when these two conditions were overcome, the last and greatest of all difficulties remained behind,--no jury could be found to convict, when their own lives might pay the penalty of their honesty. While thus, on one side, went the agent, with his cumbrous accompaniments of law-officers and parchments, police constables and bailiffs, to effect a distress or an ejectment; the midnight party with arms patrolled the country, firing the haggards and the farmhouses, setting all law at defiance, and asserting in their own bloody vengeance the supremacy of massacre.

Not a day went over without its chronicle of crime; the very calendar was red with murder. Friends parted with a fervour of feeling, that shewed none knew if they would meet on the morrow; and a dark, gloomy suspicion prevailed through the land, each dreading his neighbour, and deeming his isolation more secure than all the ties of friendship. All the bonds of former love, all the relations of kindred and affection, were severed by this terrible league. Brothers, fathers, and sons were arrayed against each other. A despotism was thus set up, which even they who detested dared not oppose. The very defiance it hurled at superior power, awed and terrified themselves. Nor was this feeling lessened when they saw that these dreadful acts--acts so horrible as to make men shudder at the name of Ireland when heard in the farthest corner of Europe--that these had their apologists in the press, that even a designation was invented for them, and murder could be spoken of patriotically as the “Wild Justice” of the people.

There is a terrible contagion in crime. The man whose pure heart had never harboured a bad thought cannot live untainted where wickedness is rife. The really base and depraved were probably not many; but there were hardships and sufferings every where; misery abounded in the land--misery too dreadful to contemplate. It was not difficult to connect such sufferings with the oppressions, real or supposed, of the wealthier classes. Some, believed the theory with all the avidity of men who grasp at straws when drowning; others, felt a savage pleasure at the bare thought of reversing the game of sufferance; while many, mixed up their own wrongs with what they regarded as national grievances, and converted their private vengeance into a patriotic daring. Few stood utterly aloof, and even of these, none would betray the rest.

The temporary success of murder, too, became a horrible incentive to its commission. The agent shot, the law he had set in motion stood still, the process fell powerless; the “Wild Justice” superseded the slower footsteps of common law, and the murderer saw himself installed in safety, when he ratified his bond in the blood of his victim.

Habitual poverty involves so much of degradation, that recklessness of life is its almost invariable accompaniment; and thus, many of these men ceased to speculate on the future, and followed the dictates of their leaders in blind and dogged submission. There were many, too, who felt a kind of savage enthusiasm in the career of danger, and actually loved the very hazard of the game. Many more had private wrongs--old debts of injury to wipe out--and grasped at the occasion to acquit them; but even when no direct motives existed, the terror of evil consequences induced great numbers to ally themselves with this terrible conspiracy, and when not active partisans, at least to be faithful and secret confidants.

Among the many dispossessed by the agent was Owen Connor. Scarcely had he left the neighbourhood, than an ejectment was served against him; and the bailiff, by whose representations Owen was made to appear a man of dangerous character, installed in his mountain-farm. This fellow was one of those bold, devil-may-care ruffians, who survive in every contest longer than men of more circumspect courage; and Lucas was not sorry to find that he could establish such an outpost in this wild and dreary region. Well armed, and provided with a sufficiency of ammunition, he promised to maintain his strong-hold against any force--a boast not so unreasonable, as there was only one approach to the cabin, and that, a narrow path on the very verge of a precipice. Owen's unexpected appearance was in his eyes, therefore, a signal for battle; he supposed that he was come back to assert his ancient right, and in this spirit it was, he menaced him with instant death if he advanced another step. Indeed, he had been more than once threatened that Owen's return would be a “dark day” for him, and prepared himself for a meeting with him, as an occasion which might prove fatal to either. These threats, not sparingly bandied by those who felt little inclination to do battle on their own account, had become so frequent, that many looked for Owen's reappearance as for an event of some moment.

Old Larry often heard these reports, and well knowing Owen's ardent disposition and passionate temper, and how easily he became the tool of others, when any deed of more than ordinary hazard was presented to him, grieved deeply over the consequences such promptings might lead to; and thus it was, that he received him with that outburst of sorrow for which Owen was little prepared.

If Owen was shocked as he listened first to the tale of anarchy and bloodshed the old man revealed, a savage pleasure came over him afterwards, to think, what terror these midnight maraudings were making in the hearts of those who lived in great houses, and had wealth and influence. His own wrongs rankled too deeply in his breast to make him an impartial hearer; and already, many of his sympathies were with the insurgents.

It was almost day-break ere he could close his eyes; for although tired and worn out, the exciting themes he was revolving banished every thought of sleep, and made him restless and fretful. His last words to Larry, as he lay down to rest, were a desire that he might remain for a day or two concealed in his cabin, and that none of the neighbours should learn anything of his arrival. The truth was, he had not courage to face his former friends, nor could he bear to meet the Joyces: what step he purposed to take in the mean while, and how to fashion his future course, it is hard to say: for the present, he only asked time.

The whole of the following day he remained within the little hut; and when night came, at last ventured forth to breathe the fresh air and move his cramped limbs. His first object, then, was to go over to Joyce's house, with no intention of visiting its inmates--far from it. The poor fellow had conceived a shrinking horror of the avowal he should be compelled to make of his own failure, and did not dare to expose himself to such a test.

The night was dark and starless: that heavy, clouded darkness which follows a day of rain in our western climate, and makes the atmosphere seem loaded and weighty. To one less accustomed than was Owen, the pathway would have been difficult to discover; but he knew it well in every turning and winding, every dip of the ground, and every rock and streamlet in the course. There was the stillness of death on every side; and although Owen stopped more than once to listen, not the slightest sound could be heard. The gloom and dreariness suited well the “habit of his soul.” His own thoughts were not of the brightest, and his step was slow and his head downcast as he went.

At last the glimmering of light, hazy and indistinct from the foggy atmosphere, came into view, and a few minutes after, he entered the little enclosure of the small garden which flanked one side of the cabin. The quick bark of a dog gave token of his approach, and Owen found some difficulty in making himself recognised by the animal, although an old acquaintance. This done, he crept stealthily to the window from which the gleam of light issued. The shutters were closed, hut between their joinings he obtained a view of all within.

At one side of the fire was Mary--his own Mary, when last he parted with her. She was seated at a spinning-wheel, but seemed less occupied with the work, than hent on listening to some noise without. Phil also stood in the attitude of one inclining his ear to catch a sound, and held a musket in his hand like one ready to resist attack. A farm-servant, a lad of some eighteen, stood at his side, armed with a horse-pistol, his features betraying no very equivocal expression of fear and anxiety. Little Patsy nestled at Mary's side, and with his tiny hands had grasped her arm closely.

They stood there, as if spell-bound. It was evident they were afraid, by the slightest stir, to lose the chance of hearing any noise without; and when Mary at last lifted up her head, as if to speak, a quick motion of her brother's hand warned her to be silent. What a history did that group reveal to Owen, as, with a heart throbbing fiercely, he gazed upon it! But a few short months back, and the inmates of that happy home knew not if at night the door was even latched; the thought of attack or danger never crossed their minds. The lordly dwellers in a castle felt less security in their slumbers than did these peasants; now, each night brought a renewal of their terrors. It came no longer the season of mutual greeting around the wintry hearth, the hour of rest and repose; but a time of anxiety and dread, a gloomy period of doubt, harassed by every breeze that stirred, and every branch that moved.

“'Tis nothing _this time_,” said Phil, at last. “Thank God for that same!” and he replaced his gun above the chimney, while Mary blessed herself devoutly, and seemed to repeat a prayer to herself. Owen gave one parting look, and retired as noiselessly as he came.

To creep forth with the dark hours, and stand at this window, became with Owen, now, the whole business of life. The weary hours of the day were passed in the expectancy of that brief season--the only respite he enjoyed from the corroding cares of his own hard fortune. The dog, recognising him, no longer barked as he approached; and he could stand unmolested and look at that hearth, beside which he was wont once to sit and feel at home.

Thus was it, as the third week was drawing to a close, when old Larry, who had ventured down to the village to make some little purchase, brought back the news, that information had been sworn by the bailiff against Owen Connor, for threatening him with death, on pain of his not abandoning his farm. The people would none of them give any credit to the oath, as none knew of Owen's return; and the allegation was only regarded as another instance of the perjury resorted to by their opponents, to crush and oppress them.

“They'll have the police out to-morrow, I hear, to search after ye; and sure the way ye've kept hid will be a bad job, if they find ye after all.”

“_If_ they do, Larry!” said Owen, laughing; “but I think it will puzzle them to do so.” And the very spirit of defiance prevented Owen at once surrendering himself to the charge against him. He knew every cave and hiding-place of the mountain, from childhood upwards, and felt proud to think how he could baffle all pursuit, no matter how persevering his enemies. It was essential, however, that he should leave his present hiding-place at once; and no sooner was it dark, than Owen took leave of old Larry and issued forth. The rain was falling in torrents, accompanied hy a perfect hurricane, as he left the cabin; fierce gusty blasts swept down the bleak mountain-side, and with wild and melancholy cadence poured along the valley; the waters of the lake plashed and beat upon the rocky shore; the rushing torrents, as they forced their way down the mountain, swelled the uproar, in which the sound of crashing branches and even rocks were mingled.

“'Tis a dreary time to take to the cowld mountain for a home,” said Owen, as he drew his thick frieze coat around him, and turned his shoulder to the storm. “I hardly think the police, or the king's throops either, will try a chase after me this night.”

There was more of gratified pride in this muttered reflection than at first sight might appear; for Owen felt a kind of heroism in his own daring at that moment, that supported and actually encouraged him in his course. The old spirit of bold defiance, which for ages has characterised the people; the resolute resistance to authority, or to tyranny, which centuries have not erased, was strong in his hardy nature; and he asked for nothing better, than to pit his own skill, ingenuity, and endurance against his opponents, for the mere pleasure of the encounter.

As there was little question on Owen's mind that no pursuit of him would take place on such a night, he resolved to pass the time till day-break within the walls of the old churchyard, the only spot he could think of which promised any shelter. There was a little cell or crypt there, where he could safely remain till morning. An hour's walking brought him to the little gate, the last time he had entered which, was at his poor father's funeral. His reflection, now, was rather on his own altered condition since that day; but even on that thought he suffered himself not to dwell. In fact, a hardy determination to face the future, in utter forgetfulness of the past, was the part he proposed to himself; and he did his utmost to bend his mind to the effort.

As he drew near the little crypt I have mentioned, he was amazed to see the faint flickering of a fire within it. At first a superstitious fear held him back, and he rapidly repeated some prayers to himself; but the emotion was soon over, and he advanced boldly toward it. “Who's there? stand! or give the word!” said a gruff voice from within. Owen stood still, but spoke not. The challenge was like that of a sentry, and he half-feared he had unwittingly strayed within the precincts of a patrol. “Give the word at once! or you'll never spake another,” was the savage speech which, accompanied by a deep curse, now met his ears, while the click of a gun-Cock was distinctly audible.

“I'm a poor man, without a home or a shelter,” said Owen, calmly; “and what's worse, I'm without arms, or maybe you wouldn't talk so brave.”

“What's yer name? Where are ye from?”

“I'm Owen Connor; that's enough for ye, whoever ye are,” replied he, resolutely; “it's a name I'm not ashamed nor afraid to say, anywhere.”

The man within the cell threw a handful of dry furze upon the smouldering flame, and while he remained concealed himself, took a deliberate survey of Owen as he stood close to the doorway. “You're welcome, Owen,” said he, in an altered voice, and one which Owen immediately recognised as that of the old blacksmith, Miles Regan; “you're welcome, my boy! better late than never, anyhow!”

“What do you mean, Miles? 'Tisn't expecting me here ye were, I suppose?”

“'Tis just that same then, I was expecting this many a day,” said Miles, as with a rugged grasp of both hands he drew Owen within the narrow cell. “And 't'aint me only was expecting it, but every one else. Here, avich, taste this--ye're wet and cowld both; that will put life in ye--and it never ped tha king sixpence.”

And he handed Owen a quart bottle as he spoke, the odour of which was unmistakeable enough, to bear testimony to his words.

“And what brings you here, Miles, in the name of God?” said Owen, for his surprise at the meeting increased every moment.

“'Tis your own case, only worse,” said the other, with a drunken laugh, for the poteen had already affected his head.

“And what's that, if I might make bould?” said Owen, rather angrily.

“Just that I got the turn-out, my boy. That new chap, they have over the property, sould me out, root and branch; and as I didn't go quiet, ye see, they brought the polis down, and there was a bit of a fight, to take the two cows away; and somehow”--here he snatched the bottle rudely from Owen's hand, and swallowed a copious draught of it--“and, somehow, the corporal was killed, and I thought it better to be away for a while--for, at the inquest, though the boys would take 'the vestment' they seen him shot by one of his comrades, there was a bit of a smash in his skull, ye see”--here he gave a low fearful laugh--“that fitted neatly to the top of my eleven-pound hammer; ye comprehend?”

Owen's blood ran cold as he said, “Ye don't mean it was you that killed him?”

“I do then,” replied the other, with a savage grin, as he placed his face within a few inches of Owen's. “There's a hundred pounds blood-money for ye, now, if ye give the information! A hundred pounds,” muttered he to himself; “musha, I never thought they'd give ten shillings for my own four bones before!”

Owen scorned to reply to the insinuation of his turning informer, and sat moodily thinking over the event.

“Well, I'll be going, anyhow,” said he rising, for his abhorrence of his companion made him feel the storm and the hurricane a far preferable alternative.

“The divil a one foot ye'll leave this, my boy,” said Miles, grasping him with the grip of his gigantic hand; “no, no, ma bouchai, 'tisn't so easy airned as ye think; a hundred pounds, naboclish!

“Leave me free! let go my arm!” said Owen, whose anger now rose at the insolence of this taunt.

“I'll break it across my knee, first,” said the infuriated ruffian, as he half imitated by a gesture his horrid threat.

There was no comparison in point of bodily strength between them; for although Owen was not half the other's age, and had the advantage of being perfectly sober, the smith was a man of enormous power, and held him, as though he were a child in his grasp.

“So that's what you'd be at, my boy, is it?” said Miles, scoffing; “it's the fine thrade you choose! but maybe it's not so pleasant, after all. Stay still there--be quiet, I say--by----,” and here he uttered a most awful oath--“if you rouse me, I'll paste your brains against that wall;” and as he spoke, he dashed his closed fist against the rude and crumbling masonry, with a force that shook several large stones from their places, and left his knuckles one indistinguishable mass of blood and gore.

“That's brave, anyhow,” said Owen, with a bitter mockery, for his own danger, at the moment, could not repress his contempt for the savage conduct of the other.

Fortunately, the besotted intellect of the smith made him accept the speech in a very different sense, and he said, “There never was the man yet, I wouldn't give him two blows at me, for one at him, and mine to be the last.”

“I often heard of that before,” said Owen, who saw that any attempt to escape by main force was completely out of the question, and that stratagem alone could present a chance.

“Did ye ever hear of Dan Lenahan?” said Miles, with a grin; “what I did to Dan: I was to fight him wid one hand, and the other tied behind my back; and when he came up to shake hands wid me before the fight, I just put my thumb in my hand, that way, and I smashed his four fingers over it.”

“There was no fight that day, anyhow, Miles.”

“Thrue for ye, boy; the sport was soon over--raich me over the bottle,” and with that, Miles finished the poteen at a draught, and then lay back against the wall, as if to sleep. Still, he never relinquished his grasp, but, as he fell off asleep, held him as in a vice.

As Owen sat thus a prisoner, turning over in his mind every possible chance of escape, he heard the sound of feet and men's voices rapidly approaching; and, in a few moments, several men turned into the churchyard, and came towards the crypt. They were conversing in a low but hurried voice, which was quickly hushed as they came nearer.

“What's this,” cried one, as he entered the cell; “Miles has a prisoner here!”

“Faix, he has so, Mickey;” answered Owen, for he recognised in the speaker an old friend and schoolfellow. The rest came hurriedly forward at the words, and soon Owen found himself among a number of his former companions. Two or three of the party were namesakes and relations.

The explanation of his capture was speedily given, and they all laughed heartily at Owen's account of his ingenious efforts at flattery.

“Av the poteen held out, Owen dear, ye wouldn't have had much trouble; but he can drink two quarts before he loses his strength.”

In return for his narrative, they freely and frankly told their own story. They had been out arms-hunting--unsuccessfully, however--their only exploit being the burning of a haggard belonging to a farmer who refused to join the “rising.”

Owen felt greatly relieved to discover, that his old friends regarded the smith with a horror fully as great as his own. But they excused themselves for the companionship by saying, “What are we to do with the crayture? Ye wouldn't have us let him be taken?” And thus they were compelled to practise every measure for the security of one they had no love for, and whose own excesses increased the hazard tenfold.

The marauding exploits they told of, were, to Owen's ears, not devoid of a strange interest, the danger alone had its fascination for him; and, artfully interwoven as their stories were with sentiments of affected patriotism and noble aspirations for the cause of their country, they affected him strongly.

For, strange as it may seem, a devotion to country--a mistaken sense of national honour--prompted many to these lawless courses. Vague notions of confiscated lands to be restored to their rightful possessors; ancient privileges reconferred; their church once more endowed with its long-lost wealth and power: such were the motives of the more high-spirited and independent. Others sought redress for personal grievances; some real or imaginary hardship they laboured under; or, perhaps, as was not unfrequent, they bore the memory of some old grudge or malice, which they hoped now to have an opportunity of requiting. Many were there, who, like the weak-minded in all popular commotions, float with the strong tide, whichever way it may run. They knew not the objects aimed at; they were ignorant of the intentions of their leaders; but would not be under the stain of cowardice among their companions, nor shrink from any cause where there was danger, if only for that very reason. Thus was the mass made up, of men differing in various ways; but all held together by the common tie of a Church and a Country. It might be supposed that the leaders in such a movement would be those who, having suffered some grievous wrong, were reckless enough to adventure on any course that promised vengeance;--very far from this. The principal promoters of the insurrection were of the class of farmers--men well to do, and reputed, in many cases wealthy. The instruments by which they worked were indeed of the very poorer class--the cottier, whose want and misery had eat into his nature, and who had as little room for fear as for hope in his chilled heart. Some injury sustained by one of these, some piece of justice denied him; his ejection from his tenement; a chance word, perhaps, spoken to him in anger by his landlord or the agent, were the springs which moved a man like this, and brought him into confederacy with those who promised him a speedy repayment of his wrongs, and flattered him into the belief that his individual case had all the weight and importance of a national question. Many insurrectionary movements have grown into the magnitude of systematic rebellion from the mere assumption on the part of others, that they were prearranged and predetermined. The self-importance suggested by a bold opposition to the law, is a strong agent in arming men against its terrors. The mock martyrdom of Ireland is in this way, perhaps, her greatest and least curable evil.

Owen was, of all others, the man they most wished for amongst them. Independent of his personal courage and daring, he was regarded as one fruitful in expedients, and never deterred by difficulties. This mingled character of cool determination and headlong impulse, made him exactly suited to become a leader; and many a plot was thought of, to draw him into their snares, when the circumstances of his fortune thus anticipated their intentions.

It would not forward the object of my little tale to dwell upon the life he now led. It was indeed an existence full of misery and suffering. To exaggerate the danger of his position, his companions asserted that the greatest efforts were making for his capture, rewards offered, and spies scattered far and wide through the country; and while they agreed with him that nothing could be laid to his charge, they still insisted, that were he once taken, false-swearing and perjury would bring him to the gallows, “as it did many a brave boy before him.”

Half-starved, and harassed by incessant change of place; tortured by the fevered agony of a mind halting between a deep purpose of vengeance and a conscious sense of innocence, his own daily sufferings soon brought down his mind to that sluggish state of gloomy desperation, in which the very instincts of our better nature seem dulled and blunted. “I cannot be worse!” was his constant expression, as he wandered alone by some unfrequented mountain-path, or along the verge of some lonely ravine. “I cannot be worse!” It is an evil moment that suggests a thought like this!

Each night he was accustomed to repair to the old churchyard, where some of the “boys,” as they called themselves, assembled to deliberate on future measures, or talk over the past. It was less in sympathy with their plans that Owen came, than for the very want of human companionship. His utter solitude gave him a longing to hear their voices, and see their faces; while in their recitals of outrage, he felt that strange pleasure the sense of injury supplies, at any tale of sorrow and suffering.

At these meetings the whisky-bottle was never forgotten; and while some were under a pledge not to take more than a certain quantity--a vow they kept most religiously--others drank deeply. Among these was Owen. The few moments of reckless forgetfulness he then enjoyed were the coveted minutes of his long dreary day, and he wished for night to come as the last solace that was left him.

His companions knew him too well, to endeavour by any active influence to implicate him in their proceedings. They cunningly left the work to time and his own gloomy thoughts; watching, however, with eager anxiety, how, gradually he became more and more interested in all their doings; how, by degrees he ceased even the half-remonstrance against some deed of unnecessary cruelty; and listened with animation where before he but heard with apathy, if not repugnance. The weeds of evil grow rankest in the rich soil of a heart whose nature, once noble, has been perverted and debased. Ere many weeks passed over, Owen, so far from disliking the theme of violence and outrage, became half-angry with his comrades, that they neither proposed any undertaking to him, nor even asked his assistance amongst them.

This spirit grew hourly stronger in him; offended pride worked within his heart during the tedious days he spent alone, and he could scarcely refrain from demanding what lack of courage and daring they saw in him, that he should be thus forgotten and neglected.

In this frame of mind, irresolute as to whether he should not propose himself for some hazardous scheme, or still remain a mere spectator of others, he arrived one evening in the old churchyard. Of late, “the boys,” from preconcerted arrangements among themselves, had rather made a show of cold and careless indifference in their manner to Owen--conduct which deeply wounded him.

As he approached now the little crypt, he perceived that a greater number than usual were assembled through the churchyard, and many were gathered in little knots and groups, talking eagerly together; a half-nod, a scarcely muttered “Good even,” was all the salutation he met, as he moved towards the little cell, where, by the blaze of a piece of bog-pine, a party were regaling themselves--the custom and privilege of those who had been last out on any marauding expedition. A smoking pot of potatoes and some bottles of whisky formed the entertainment, at which Owen stood a longing and famished spectator.

“Will yez never be done there eatin' and crammin' yerselves?” said a gruff voice from the crowd to the party within; “and ye know well enough there's business to be done to-night.”

“And ain't we doing it?” answered one of the feasters. “Here's your health, Peter!” and so saying, he took a very lengthened draught from the “poteen” bottle.

“'Tis the thrade ye like best, anyhow,” retorted the other. “Come, boys; be quick now!”

The party did not wait a second bidding, but arose from the place, and removing the big pot to make more room, they prepared the little cell for the reception of some other visitors.

“That's it now! We'll not be long about it. Larry, have yez the deck,' my boy?”

“There's the book, darlint,” said a short, little, de-crepid creature, speaking with an asthmatic effort, as he produced a pack of cards, which, if one were to judge from the dirt, made the skill of the game consist as much in deciphering as playing them.

“Where's Sam M'Guire?” called out the first speaker, in a voice loud enough to be heard over the whole space around; and the name was repeated from voice to voice, till it was replied to by one who cried--

“Here, sir; am I wanted?”

“You are, Sam; and 'tis yourself is always to the fore when we need yez.”

“I hope so indeed,” said Sam, as he came forward, a flush of gratified pride on his hardy cheek. He was a young, athletic fellow, with a fine manly countenance, expressive of frankness and candour.

“Luke Heffernan! where's Luke?” said the other.

“I'm here beside ye,” answered a dark-visaged, middle-aged man, with the collar of his frieze coat buttoned high on his face; “ye needn't be shouting my name that way--there may be more bad than good among uz.

“There's not an informer, any way--if that's what ye mean,” said the other quickly. “Gavan Daly! Call Gavan Daly, will ye, out there?” And the words were passed from mouth to mouth in a minute, but no one replied to the summons.

“He's not here--Gavan's not here!” was the murmured answer of the crowd, given in a tone that hoded very little in favour of its absent owner.

“Not here!” said the leader, as he crushed the piece of paper, from which he read, in his hand; “not here! Where is he, then? Does any of yez know where's Gavan Daly?”

But there was no answer.

“Can no body tell?--is he sick?--or is any belonging to him sick and dying, that he isn't here this night, as he swore to be?”

“I saw him wid a new coat on him this morning early in Oughterarde, and he said he was going to see a cousin of his down below Oranmore,” said a young lad from the outside of the crowd, and the speaker was in a moment surrounded by several, anxious to find out some other particulars of the absent man. It was evident that the boy's story was far from being satisfactory, and the circumstance of Daly's wearing a new coat, was one freely commented on by those who well knew how thoroughly they were in the power of any who should betray them.

“He's in the black list this night,” said the leader, as he motioned the rest to be silent; “that's where I put him now; and see, all of yez--mind my words--if any of uz comes to harm, it will go hard but some will be spared; and if there was only one remaining, he wouldn't be the cowardly villain not to see vengeance on Gavan Daly, for what he's done.”

A murmur of indignation at the imputed treachery of the absent man buzzed through the crowd; while one fellow, with a face flushed by drink, and eyes bleared and bloodshot, cried out: “And are ye to stop here all night, calling for the boy that's gone down to bethray yez? Is there none of yez will take his place?”

“I will! I will! I'm ready and willin'!” were uttered by full twenty, in a breath.

“Who will ye have with yez? take your own choice!” said the leader, turning towards M'Quire and Heffernan, who stood whispering eagerly together.

“There's the boy I'd take out of five hundred, av he was the same I knew once,” said M'Guire, laying his hand on Owen's shoulder.

“Begorra then, I wondher what ye seen in him lately to give you a consate out of him,” cried Heffernan, with a rude laugh. “'Tisn't all he's done for the cause anyway.”

Owen started, and fixed his eyes first on one, then on the other of the speakers; but his look was rather the vacant stare of one awakening from a heavy sleep, than the expression of any angry passion--for want and privation had gone far to sap his spirit, as well as his bodily strength.

“There, avich, taste that,” said a man beside him, who was struck by his pale and wasted cheek, and miserable appearance.

Owen almost mechanically took the bottle, and drank freely, though the contents was strong poteen.

“Are ye any betther now?” said Heffernan, with a sneering accent.

“I am,” said Owen, calmly, for he was unconscious of the insolence passed off on him; “I'm a deal better.”

“Come along, ma bouchal!” cried M'Guire; “come into the little place with us, here.”

“What do ye want with me, boys?” asked Owen, looking about him through the crowd.

“'Tis to take a hand at the cards, divil a more,” said an old fellow near, and the speech sent a savage laugh among the rest.

“I'm ready and willin',” said Owen; “but sorra farthen I've left me to play; and if the stakes is high--”

“Faix, that's what they're not,” said Heffernan; “they're the lowest ever ye played for.”

“Tell me what it is, anyway,” cried Owen.

“Just, the meanest thing at all--the life of the blaguard that turned yerself out of yer holdin'--Lucas the agent.”

“To kill Lucas?”

“That same; and if ye don't like the game, turn away and make room for a boy that has more spirit in him.”

“Who says I ever was afeard?” said Owen, on whom now the whisky was working. “Is it Luke Heffernan dares to face me down?--come out here, fair, and see will ye say it again.”

“If you won't join the cause, you mustn't be bringing bad blood among us,” cried the leader, in a determined tone; “there's many a brave boy here to-night would give his right hand to get the offer you did.”

“I'm ready--here I am, ready now,” shouted Owen wildly; “tell me what you want me to do, and see whether I will or no.”

A cheer broke from the crowd at these words, and all within his reach stretched out their hands to grasp Owen's; and commendations were poured on him from every side.

Meanwhile Heffernan and his companion had cleared the little crypt of its former occupants, and having heaped fresh wood upon the fire, sat down before the blaze, and called out for Owen to join them. Owen took another draught from one of the many bottles offered by the bystanders, and hastened to obey the summons.

“Stand back now, and don't speak a word,” cried the leader, keeping off the anxious crowd that pressed eagerly forward to witness the game; the hushed murmuring of the voices shewing how deeply interested they felt.

The three players bent their heads forward as they sat, while Heffernan spoke some words in a low whisper, to which the others responded by a muttered assent. “Well, here's success to the undhertakin' anyhow,” cried he aloud, and filling out a glass of whisky, drank it off; then passing the liquor to the two others, they followed his example.

“Will ye like to deal, Owen?” said M'Guire; “you're the new-comer, and we'll give ye the choice.”

“No, thank ye, boys,” said Owen; “do it yerselves, one of ye; I'm sure of fair play.”

Heffernan then took the cards, and wetting his thumb for the convenience of better distributing them, slowly laid five cards before each player; he paused for a second before he turned the trump, and in a low voice said: “If any man's faint-hearted, let him say it now--”

“Turn the card round, and don't be bothering us,” cried M'Guire; “one 'ud think we never played a game before.”

“Come, be alive,” said Owen, in whom the liquor had stimulated the passion for play.

“What's the thrump--is it a diamond? look over and tell us,” murmured the crowd nearest the entrance.

“'Tis a spade!--I lay fourpence 'tis a spade!”

“Why wouldn't it be?” said another; “it's the same spade will dig Lucas's grave this night!”

“Look! see!” whispered another, “Owen Connor's won the first thrick! Watch him now! Mind the way he lays the card down, with a stroke of his fist!”

“I wish he wouldn't be drinking so fast!” said another.

“Who won that? who took that thrick?” “Ould Heffernan, divil fear him! I never see him lose yet.”

“There's another; that's Owen's!” “No; by Jonas! 'tis Luke again has it.” “That's Sam M'Quire's! See how aizy he takes them up.”

“Now for it, boys! whisht! here's the last round!” and at this moment, a breathless silence prevailed among the crowd; for while such as were nearest were eagerly bent on observing the progress of the game, the more distant bent their heads to catch every sound that might indicate its fortune.

“See how Luke grins! watch his face!” whispered a low voice. “He doesn't care how it goes, now, he's out of it!” and so it was. Heffernan had already won two of the five tricks, and was safe whatever the result of the last one. The trial lay between M'Guire and Owen.

“Come, Owen, my hearty!” said M'Guire, as he held a card ready to play, “you or I for it now; we'll soon see which the devil's fondest of. There's the two of clubs for ye!”

“There's the three, then!” said Owen, with a crash of his hand, as he placed the card over the other.

“And there's the four!” said Heffernan, “and the thrick is Sam M'Guire's.”

“Owen Connor's lost!” “Owen's lost!” murmured the crowd; and, whether in half-compassion for his defeat, or grief that so hazardous a deed should be entrusted to a doubtful hand, the sensation created was evidently of gloom and dissatisfaction.

“You've a right to take either of us wid ye, Owen,” said M'Guire, slapping him on the shoulder. “Luke or myself must go, if ye want us.”

“No; I'll do it myself,” said Owen, in a low hollow voice.

“There's the tool, then!” said Heffernan, producing from the breast of his frieze coat a long horse-pistol, the stock of which was mended by a clasp of iron belted round it; “and if it doesn't do its work, 'tis the first time it ever failed. Ould Miles Cregan, of Gurtane, was the last that heard it spake.”

Owen took the weapon, and examined it leisurely, opening the pan and settling the priming, with a finger that never trembled. As he drew forth the ramrod to try the barrel, Heffernan said, with a half-grin, “There's two bullets in it, avich!--enough's as good as a feast.”

Owen sat still and spoke not, while the leader and Heffernan explained to him the circumstances of the plot against the life of Mr. Lucas. Information had been obtained by some of the party, that the agent would leave Galway on the following evening, on his way to Westport, passing through Oughterarde and their own village, about midnight. He usually travelled in his gig, with relays of horses ready at different stations of the way, one of which was about two miles distant from the old ruin, on the edge of the lake--a wild and dreary spot, where stood a solitary cabin, inhabited by a poor man who earned his livelihood by fishing. No other house was within a mile of this; and here, it was determined, while in the act of changing horses, the murder should be effected. The bleak common beside the lake was studded with furze and brambles, beneath which it was easy to obtain shelter, though pursuit was not to be apprehended--at least they judged that the servant would not venture to leave his master at such a moment; and as for the fisherman, although not a sworn member of their party, they well knew he would not dare to inform against the meanest amongst them.

Owen listened attentively to all these details, and the accurate directions by which they instructed him on every step he should take. From the moment he should set foot within the cover to the very instant of firing, each little event had its warning.

“Mind!” repeated Heffernan, with a slow, distinct whisper, “he never goes into the house at all; but if the night's cowld--as it's sure to be this sayson--he'll be moving up and down, to keep his feet warm. Cover him as he turns round; but don't fire the first cover, but wait till he comes back to the same place again, and then blaze. Don't stir then, till ye see if he falls: if he does, be off down the common; but if he's only wounded--but sure ye'll do better than that!”

“I'll go bail he will!” said M'Guire. “Sorra fear that Owen Connor's heart would fail him! and sure if he likes me to be wid him--”

“No, no!” said Owen, in the same hollow voice as before, “I'll do it all by myself; I want nobody.”

“'Tis the very words I said when I shot Lambert of Kilclunah!” said M'Guire. “I didn't know him by looks, and the boys wanted me to take some one to point him out. 'Sorra bit!' says I, 'leave that to me;' and so I waited in the gripe of the ditch all day, till, about four in the evening, I seen a stout man wid a white hat coming across the fields, to where the men was planting potatoes. So I ups to him wid a letter in my hand, this way, and my hat off--'Is yer honner Mr. Lambert?' says I. 'Yes,' says he; 'what do ye want with me?' ''Tis a bit of a note I've for yer honner,' says I; and I gav him the paper. He tuck it and opened it; but troth it was little matter there was no writin' in it, for he would'nt have lived to read it through. I sent the ball through his heart, as near as I stand to ye; the wadding was burning his waistcoat when I left him. 'God save you!' says the men, as I went across the potato-field. 'Save you kindly!' says I. 'Was that a shot we heard?' says another. 'Yes,' says I; 'I was fright'ning the crows;' and sorra bit, but that's a saying they have against me ever since.” These last few words were said in a simper of modesty, which, whether real or affected, was a strange sentiment at the conclusion of such a tale.

The party soon after separated, not to meet again for several nights; for the news of Lucas's death would of course be the signal for a general search through the country, and the most active measures to trace the murderer. It behoved them, then, to be more than usually careful not to be absent from their homes and their daily duties for some days at least: after which they could assemble in safety as before.

Grief has been known to change the hair to grey in a single night; the announcement of a sudden misfortune has palsied the hand that held the ill-omened letter; but I question if the hours that are passed before the commission of a great crime, planned and meditated beforehand, do not work more fearful devastation on the human heart, than all the sorrows that ever crushed humanity. Ere night came, Owen Connor seemed to have grown years older. In the tortured doublings of his harassed mind he appeared to have spent almost a lifetime since the sun last rose. He had passed in review before him each phase of his former existence, from childhood--free, careless, and happy childhood--to days of boyish sport and revelry; then came the period of his first manhood, with its new ambitions and hopes. He thought of these, and how, amid the humble circumstances of his lowly fortune, he was happy. What would he have thought of him who should predict such a future as this for him? How could he have believed it? And yet the worst of all remained to come. He tried to rally his courage and steel his heart, by repeating over the phrases so frequent among his companions. “Sure, aint I driven to it? is it my fault if I take to this, or theirs that compelled me?” and such like. But these words came with no persuasive force in the still hour of conscience: they were only effectual amid the excitement and tumult of a multitude, when men's passions were high, and their resolutions daring. “It is too late to go back,” muttered he, as he arose from the spot, where, awaiting nightfall, he had lain hid for several hours; “they mustn't call me a coward, any way.”

As Owen reached the valley the darkness spread far and near, not a star could be seen; great masses of cloud covered the sky, and hung down heavily, midway upon the mountains. There was no rain; but on the wind came from time to time a drifted mist, which shewed that the air was charged with moisture. The ground was still wet and plashy from recent heavy rain. It was indeed a cheerless night and a cheerless hour; but not more so than the heart of him who now, bent upon his deadly purpose, moved slowly on towards the common.

On descending towards the lake-side, he caught a passing view of the little village, where a few lights yet twinkled, the flickering stars that shone within some humble home. What would he not have given to be but the meanest peasant there, the poorest creature that toiled and sickened on his dreary way! He turned away hurriedly, and with his hand pressed heavily on his swelling heart walked rapidly on. “It will soon be over now,” said Owen; he was about to add, with the accustomed piety of his class, “thank God for it,” but the words stopped in his throat, and the dreadful thought flashed on him, “Is it when I am about to shed His creature's blood, I should say this?”

He sat down upon a large stone beside the lake, at a spot where the road came down to the water's edge, and where none could pass unobserved by him. He had often fished from that very rock when a boy, and eaten his little dinner of potatoes beneath its shelter. Here he sat once more; saying to himself as he did so, “'Tis an ould friend, anyway, and I'll just spend my last night with him;”, for so in his mind he already regarded his condition. The murder effected, he determined to make no effort to escape. Life was of no value to him. The snares of the conspiracy had entangled him, but his heart was not in it.

As the night wore on, the clouds lifted, and the wind, increasing to a storm, bore them hurriedly through the air; the waters of the lake, lashed into waves, beat heavily on the low shore; while the howling blast swept through the mountain-passes, and over the bleak, wide plain, with a rushing sound. The thin crescent of a new moon could be seen from time to time as the clouds rolled past: too faint to shed any light upon the earth, it merely gave form to the dark masses that moved before it.

“I will do it here,” said Owen, as he stood and looked upon the dark water that beat against the foot of the rock; “here, on this spot.”

He sat for some moments with his ear bent to listen, but the storm was loud enough to make all other sounds inaudible; yet, in every noise he thought he heard the sound of wheels, and the rapid tramp of a horse's feet. The motionless attitude, the cold of the night, but more than either, the debility brought on by long fasting and hunger, benumbed his limbs, so that he felt almost unable to make the least exertion, should any such be called for.

He therefore descended from the rock and moved along the road; at first, only thinking of restoring lost animation to his frame, but at length, in a half unconsciousness, he had wandered upwards of two miles beyond the little hovel where the change of horses was to take place. Just as he was on the point of returning, he perceived at a little distance, in front, the walls of a now ruined cabin, once the home of the old smith. Part of the roof had fallen in, the doors and windows were gone, the fragment of an old shutter alone remained, and this banged heavily back and forwards as the storm rushed through the wretched hut.