Pat was the first to speak.

"There's a word or two I want to spake to you, Mr. McKeon."

"To speak to me," said Mr. McKeon; "well, what is it?"

"I couldn't just be telling you here; av you wouldn't mind stepping out, a minute or so—it's not five minutes I'd be keeping you."

McKeon accordingly went out into the dark yard, about thirty paces from the house, and Brady continued—

"It's about the young masther, yer honor."

"You've said enough about him; you've hanged him; now, what more have you?"

"May I niver see the Blessed Virgin in glory av I towld a word of a lie agin the masther. Av I iver towld the truth it was that day; an' worse luck—av I'd lied then maybe it'd been betther for Mr. Thady."

"It wasn't to tell me that, you came here;—if you've anything to say, let me hear what it is."

"Why then, yer honor, is Mr. Larry, the owld man, a going to see the young masther?"

"And what if he is?"

"Why jist this thin; av he do, Keegan's boys is to saze him as he comes out on the road from Ballycloran."

"Gracious God! would he arrest the man coming to see his own son for the last time!"

"Faix, he will, Mr. McKeon; so don't let him do it; I heard him telling the bailiff."

McKeon seemed lost in astonishment, at this fresh instance of the attorney's relentless barbarity, and Brady turned round to go away. But after having walked a few yards, he came back, and said, in a hesitating whisper—

"You'll be seeing Mr. Thady afore it's all over, Mr. McKeon?"

"Well; I shall see him."

"Would you mind axing him to pardon a poor boy, Mr. McKeon?"

"May God pardon you, Brady. Your master that was, has been taught before this to forgive all his enemies; but I wouldn't dirty my mouth with your name the last time I see him."

"Sorrow a word of a lie thin I towld, Mr. McKeon."

"Never mind; truth or lies it's much the same." And McKeon returned to the house, and told Father John what he had heard from Brady; and the priest and he agreed together that it would be by far the best course to make Thady understand that his father could not leave his home to see him, for fear of falling into the hands of the attorney.

On the next day, Sunday, Father John performed mass and preached as usual in the parish chapel. When the service was over, he addressed his congregation from the altar on the subject of Thady's approaching execution, and he begged them all, as they valued his good opinion, not only not to be present at it themselves, but also to do all in their power to prevent others from being so. The same thing was done in Carrick, where the priest moreover begged his parishioners not to open their shops on that morning until the execution should be over.

The ensuing week passed slowly away. Father John was with the doomed man constantly, and McKeon saw him two or three times. On the Wednesday Mr. Webb returned from Dublin, but his journey had been a fruitless one; he had seen the Lord-Lieutenant, and had been kindly received by him; but at the same time he was informed that he could not exercise his privilege of mercy in this case, as he had been strongly advised not to do so, both by those in office under him and by the judge.

Macdermot kept up his heart wonderfully through the whole week. He never repined, nor once even alluded to Keegan. Father John spent the whole of Sunday with him. It was to be his last in this world; the last time he was to watch the light growing out of the darkness—and the darkness following the light. As the minutes flew by, his face became gradually paler, and his hand occasionally trembled. The brave soldier goes to meet Death, and meets him without a shudder when he comes. The suffering woman patiently awaits him on her bed of sickness, and conscious of her malady dies slowly without a struggle. A not uncommon fortitude enables men and women to leave their mortal coil, and take the dread leap in the dark with apparent readiness and ease. But to wait in full health and strength for the arrival of the fixed hour of certain death—to feel the moments sink from under you which are fast bringing you to the executioner's hand;—to know that in twelve—ten—eight—six hours by the clock, which hurries through the rapid minutes, you are to become—not by God's accomplished visitation—not in any gallant struggle of your own—but through the stern will of certain powerful men—a hideous, foul, and dislocated corse;—to know that at one certain ordained moment you are to be made extinct—to be violently put an end to;—to be fully aware that this is your fixed fate, and that though strong as a lion, you must at that moment die like a dog;—to await the doom without fear—without feeling the blood grow cold round the heart,—without a quickened pulse and shaking muscles, exceeds the bounds of mortal courage, and requires either the ignorant unimaginative indifference of a brute, or the superhuman endurance of an enthusiastic martyr.

Thady was neither the one nor the other; and the blood did grow cold round his heart—his pulse quickened, and his nerves shook within him; but these were involuntary signs of his human nature. He spent the day in the performance of his religious duties, and made continual efforts to fix his mind on those subjects to which it was directed by the priest; and at last he received from him final absolution for his sins, with a full assurance in its efficacy. And if true and deep repentance can make absolution available, the priest's assurance was not ill grounded.

Father Cullen, at Drumsna, and different priests in the neighbouring parishes again desired their congregations to absent themselves from the execution, and on the Sunday evening before the fatal day it was thoroughly understood through the country, that it was the wish of the priest that no one should be present.

The Monday morning came. Though Father John had not been allowed to remain all night in the prisoner's cell, he did not leave it till eleven, and was with him again at six. When the gaoler turned the key in the door, Father John found the prisoner still sleeping on his pallet. Even the loud noise of the key in the lock, and the dropping back of the heavy bolt had failed to awaken him. Before he left him on the previous evening he had insisted on his partially undressing, and he now found him exactly in the position in which he had left him.

Eight was the hour fixed for the execution, and though it seemed cruel to rob him of his last human comfort, still as so few minutes of life remained, the priest thought it better to rouse him. He laid his hand on his shoulder, and calling out his Christian name, gently shook him. It was wonderful how soundly the poor fellow slept; and at last he jumped up with a smile on his wan face, uttering those confused words of acknowledgment which so readily come to the lips of any one conscious of being caught sleeping too late, to the neglect of his worldly duties. He had been dreaming—and in his dreams he was again at Ballycloran—again sitting over the warm turf fire, talking with his father, after his hard day's work, of their lands, and their rents, and their difficulties. Father John's presence—the cold close white wall and his own memory soon made him again conscious of the truth; and as he pressed his hands to his forehead, remembering that he should never again feel the luxury of sleep, the expression of his face was dreadful to be seen.

There is nothing further to relate respecting him. As the clock struck eight he was standing on the iron grate over the front entrance into Carrick gaol. He had supported himself firmly—though evidently with difficulty. The cap was over his face—his hands were tied behind his back—and the rope was round his neck. The last sound that met his ear was the final prayer which Father John sobbed forth that God would receive him into his mercy; the bolt was drawn—and Thady Macdermot was soon no more.

Not one human form appeared before the gaol that morning. Not even a passenger crossed over the bridge from half-past seven till after eight, as from thence one might just catch a glimpse of the front of the prison. At the end of the bridge stood three or four men guarding the street, and cautioning those who came, that they could not pass by; and as their behests were quietly obeyed the police did not interfere with them. Among them were Joe Reynolds and Corney Dolan, and they did not leave their post till they were aware that the body of him to whom they showed this last respect had been removed. The shops were closed during the whole day; but it was many days before the sad melancholy which attended the execution of Thady Macdermot wore away from the little town of Carrick-on-Shannon.



Printed by J. S. Virtue, City Road, London.



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Transcriber's note:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Chapter XII, paragraph 13. The blind piper from County Mayo who plays at the wedding of Mary Brady and Denis McGovery is here named Shamuth na Pibu'a. The reader might recall that in Chapter VIII he was called Shamus na Pe'bria. The discrepancy was left unchanged from the original text.

Specific changes in wording of the text are listed below.

Chapter VI, paragraph 77. "Miles" was changed to "Myles" in the sentence beginning: Feemy looked from one to the other; she knew well by MYLES' look, that he still expected her to go, . . .

Chapter VI, paragraph 123. The word "began" was changed to "begun" in the sentence beginning: He was not aware how very uncouth his own manner had been; that instead of reasoning with her gently he had BEGUN by sneering at her lover, . . .

Chapter XIII, paragraph 52. An em-dash was added to the sentence: "Go asy now, masther Morty,"—the swain rejoiced in the name of Mortimer Kelley.

Chapter XIV, paragraph 1. The order of the words "were she" was transposed in the last sentence: He thought that if SHE WERE at present domiciled at Mrs. McKeon's, . . .

Chapter XIX, paragraph 70. The spelling of the nickname of Mrs. McKeon's daughter Lydia was changed from "Liddy" to "Lyddy," to match the spelling elsewhere, in the sentence: LYDDY, give Captain Ussher a glass of sherry.

Chapter XXV, paragraph 21. "Mr." was changed to "Mrs." in the sentence containing: . . . that Pat, at last, consented to come forward at the trial and swear to all the circumstances of the meeting at MRS. Mehan's, . . .

Chapter XXIX, paragraph 55. The word "you're" was changed to "your" in the sentence beginning: Well, now, on YOUR oath, have you ever, in the prisoner's presence, heard such language used . . .

THE END