"But I've another message for you, Feemy."

"Is it from her?"

"No, not from her, well as she loves you; it's from one who loves you better than she does; it is from one who loves you better than any ever did, since your poor mother died."

Feemy raised her eyes, and clasped her hands, as she listened to Father John's words, and marked his solemn tones. No thought of Thady entered her mind; but some indefinite, half-conceived idea respecting Ussher—that he had not been killed—that he had come to life again—that some mysterious miracle, such as she had read of in novels, had taken place; and that Father John had come with some blessed news, which might yet restore her to happiness and tranquillity. The illusion was but for a moment, though during that moment it completely took possession of her. It was as speedily dispelled by Father John's concluding words—

"I mean from your brother."

Feemy gave a long, long sigh as she heard the word. She wished for no message from her brother; he had robbed her of everything; she could not think of him without horror and shuddering.

"He sends his kindest love to you. I told him you were better, and he was very glad to hear it. Though he has many heavy cares of his own to bear, I have never seen him but he asks after your health with more anxiety than he thinks of his own prospects. Now you are better, Feemy, won't you send him some message by me?—some kind word, which may comfort him in his sorrow?"

Feemy was no hypocrite; hypocrisy, though she did not know it herself, was distasteful to her. She had no kind feelings for her brother, and she did not know how to make the pretence which might produce kind words; so she remained silent.

"What! not a word, Feemy? you who spoke so well, so properly, so affectionately, but now of that good friend of yours—have you not a word of kindness for a most affectionate brother?"

Feemy still remained silent.

"Why, Feemy, what is this? Don't you love your own brother?"

She said nothing in reply for a moment or two; and then, bursting into tears, she exclaimed,

"Don't scold me, Father John!—don't scold me now, or I shall die! I try to forgive him—I am always trying! But why did he—why did he—why did he—" She was unable to finish her sentence from the violence of her sobs and the difficulty of uttering the words which should have concluded it. She meant to say, "Why did he kill my lover?"

"Don't agitate yourself, Feemy. I don't mean to scold you; I don't mean even to vex you more than I can possibly help; but I must speak to you about your brother. I see the feeling that is in your mind, and I will not blame you for it, for I believe it is natural; but I beseech you to pray that your heart may be softened towards your brother, who instead of repugnance, deserves from you the warmest affection. But though I will not attempt to control your feelings, I must tell you that you will be most wicked if you allow them to interfere with the performance of your duties. You know your brother's trial is coming on, do you not?"

"Yes."

"Wednesday fortnight next is the day fixed, I believe. You know you will have to be a witness?"

"I believe so, Father John."

"Certainly you will; and I wish you now to listen to me, that you may know what it is that you will then have to do. In the first place you will be asked, I presume, by one gentleman whether you were willingly eloping with Captain Ussher?" Feemy shuddered as the name was pronounced. "And of course you must answer that truly—that you were doing so. Then another gentleman will ask you whether you were absolutely walking off with him when the blow was struck which killed Captain Ussher; and, Feemy, you must also answer that truly. Now the question is, can you remember what you were doing when the blow was struck? Tell me now, Feemy, can you remember?"

"No, Father John, I remember nothing; from the time when he took me by the arm, as I sat upon the tree, till Thady told me he was dead, I remember nothing. If they kill me, I can tell them nothing."

"Feemy, dear, don't sob so! That's all you'll have to say. Merely say that—merely say that you were sitting on a tree. Were you waiting for Captain Ussher there?"

"Yes."

"And that whilst you were there you saw Thady; isn't that so?"

"Yes."

"And Ussher then raised you by the arm, and then you fainted?"

"I don't know what happened to me; but I heard nothing, and saw nothing, till Thady lifted me from the ground, and told me he was dead."

"That's all, Feemy. Surely there's no great difficulty in saying that—when it'll save your own brother's life to say so; and it's only the truth. You can say as much in court as you've just said to me, can't you? Mrs. McKeon 'll be there with you—and I'll be there with you. You'll only have to say in court what you've just said to me."

"I'll try, Father John. But you don't know what it is for one like me to be talking with so many horrid faces round one—with the heart dead within—to be asked such horrid questions, and everybody listening. I'll do as you bid me; I'll go with them when they fetch me—but I know I'll die before I've said all they will want me to say."

Father John tried to comfort and strengthen her, but she was in great bodily pain, and he soon saw that he had better leave her; she had at any rate shown him by her answers to his questions, that the evidence she could give would be such as would most tend to Thady's acquittal; and, moreover, he perceived from her manner, that though the feelings which she entertained towards her brother were of a most painful description, she would, nevertheless, not be actuated by them in any of the answers she might give.

On the Thursday following Mrs. McKeon and one of her daughters called at Ballycloran, and in spite of the bars and bolts with which the front door was barricaded, they contrived to make their way into Feemy's room. She remembered that Father John had told her that they would call on that day, and she was therefore prepared to receive them. Mrs. McKeon brought her some little comforts from Drumsna, of which she was sadly in want; for there was literally nothing at Ballycloran but what was supplied by the charity of those who pitied them in their misfortunes; and among other things she brought two or three volumes from the library. She was very kind to her, and did and said all in her power that could in any way console the poor girl. Though Father John had been gentle in his manners and had endeavoured to abstain from saying anything hard, still Mrs. McKeon was more successful in her way of explaining to Feemy what it was that she would have to do. She promised, moreover, to come to Ballycloran and fetch her, and to remain with her and support her during the whole of the painful time that she would either be in the court itself, or waiting in the neighbourhood till she should be called on to give her evidence. She did not allude either to the manner in which Feemy had left Drumsna, or to the suspicions which she had formerly expressed. Her whole object now was to relieve as much as possible the despondency and misery so plainly pictured in the poor girl's face. As she put her arm round her neck and kissed her lips, Feemy's heart yearned towards her new-found friend with a kind of tenderness she had never before felt. It was as though she for once experienced a mother's solicitude for her in her sorrows, and she longed to throw herself on her knees, hide her face in her friend's lap, and confess it all. Had she been alone with her she would have done so; but there sat Louey in the same room, and though her conduct to Feemy had been everything that was kind, she felt that it was not as if she had been absolutely alone with her mother. She could not at the same time confess her disgrace to two.

Mrs. McKeon went away, after having strongly implored Feemy to return with her to Drumsna, and remain there till the trial was over. But this she absolutely refused to do—and at last it was settled that Mrs. McKeon should come for her on the morning on which the trial was to come on, and that she should hold herself ready to attend on any day that she might be called for after the commencement of the assizes.

The time now wore quickly on. When Mrs. McKeon called it had only wanted a fortnight to the first day on which the trial could take place; and as it quickly slipped away, day by day, to that bourn from which no day returns, poor Feemy's sorrow and agonies became in every way more acute. At last, on the Wednesday,—the day before that on which she was to be, or at any rate, might be fetched,—she was in such a state that she was unable to support herself in a chair. Mary McGovery would not leave her for a moment. The woman meant kindly, but her presence was only an additional torment. She worried and tortured Feemy the whole day; she talked to her, intending to comfort her, till she was so bewildered, that she could not understand a word that was said; and she kept bringing her food and slops, declaring that there was nothing like eating for a sore heart,—that if Ussher was gone, there were still as good fish in the sea as ever were caught,—and that even if Thady were condemned, the judge couldn't do more than transport him, which would only be sending him out to a better country, and "faix the one he'd lave's bad enough for man and baste."

About seven in the evening Feemy was so weak that she fainted. Mary, who was in the room at the time, lifted her on the sofa, and when she found that her mistress did not immediately come to herself, she began stripping her for the sake of unlacing her stays, and thus learnt to a certainty poor Feemy's secret.

Mary had a great deal of shrewd common sense of the coarser kind; she felt that however well inclined she might be to her mistress, she should not keep to herself the circumstance that she had just learnt; she knew it was her duty as a woman to make it known to some one, and she at once determined to go that evening to Mrs. McKeon and tell her what it was she had discovered.

As soon as Feemy had come to herself, she got her into bed, and having performed the same friendly office for the old man, she started off for Drumsna; and having procured a private audience with Mrs. McKeon, told her what had occurred.

Mrs. McKeon was not at all surprised, though she was greatly grieved. She merely said,—

"You have done quite right, Mary, to tell me; but don't mention it yet to any one else; after all this affair is over we'll see what will be best to do. God help her, poor girl; it were almost better she should die," and as Mary went down stairs she called her back to her. "Take my silk cloak with you, Mary. Tell Miss Macdermot I've sent it, because she'll be so cold to-morrow—and Mary," and here she whispered some instruction on the stairs, "and mind I shall come myself for her—but let her be ready, as may be there mayn't be a minute to spare."

Father John was certainly right when he said that Mrs. McKeon had a kind heart.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

ASSIZES AT CARRICK-ON-SHANNON.

And now the assize week in Carrick-on-Shannon had commenced, and all was bustle and confusion, noise, dirt, and distraction. I have observed that a strong, determined, regularly set-in week of bad weather usually goes the circuit in Ireland in company with the judges and barristers, making the business of those who are obliged to attend even more intolerable than from its own nature it is always sure to be. And so it was in this case.

On Tuesday afternoon Mr. Baron Hamilton and Justice Kilpatrick entered Carrick-on-Shannon, one after the other, in the company of the high sheriff, and a tremendous shower of rain, which drenched the tawdry liveries of the servants, and gave a most uncomfortable appearance to the whole affair.

The grand jury had been in the town since Monday morning—settling fiscal business—wrangling about roads—talking of tolls—checking county cesses—and performing those various patriotic offices, which they would fain make the uninitiated believe, require so much talent, industry, and energy; and as they were seen stepping over the running gutters, and making the best of their way through the splashing streets, their physiognomies appeared ominous of nothing good to the criminals, whose cases had in the first instance to come before them.

Every lodging in the town was engaged, beds being let, sometimes three in a room, for the moderate sum of a guinea each for the week. The hotels, for there are two, were crowded from the garrets to the cellars. Happy the man at such a period, who enjoys a bed-room which he can secure with a key—for without such precaution the rightful possessor is not at all unlikely, on entering his own premises, to find three or four somewhat rough looking strangers, perhaps liberated jurors, or witnesses just escaped from the fangs of a counsel, sitting in most undisturbed ease on his bed, eating bread and butter, and drinking bottled porter. Some huge farmer with dripping frieze coat will be squatted on his pillow, his towel spread as table-cloth on the little deal table which has been allotted to him as the only receptacle for his jug, basin, looking-glass, brushes, and every other article of the toilet, and his carpet-bag, dressing-gown, and pantaloons chucked unceremoniously into a corner, off the chairs which they had occupied, to make way for the damp friends of the big farmer, who is seated on the bed. This man is now drawing a cork from a bottle of porter, the froth of which you are quite sure from the manner in which the bottle is held, will chiefly fall upon the sheets between which you are destined to sleep,—unless some half drunken ruffian, regardless of rights of possession and negligent of etiquette, deposits himself there before the hour at which you may think good to retire to rest.

Fruitless and vain would it be for you to endeavour to disturb that convivial party. Better lock up your bag, above all things not forgetting your brushes; and, as you are a witness yourself, go down to the court and admire the ingenious manner in which the great barrister, Mr. Allewinde, is endeavouring to make that unfortunate and thoroughly disconcerted young man in the witness box, swear to a point diametrically opposite to another point to which he has already sworn at the instigation of counsel on the other side,—and thereby perjure himself. Never mind the bustling of eager, curious countrymen; never mind those noisy numerous policemen with their Sunday brass-chained caps; push on through them all, make your way into the centre of the court—go down there right on to the lawyers' benches; never mind the seats being full—plunge in; if you hesitate, look timid—ask question, or hang back—you are lost, thrust out, expelled, and finally banished with ignominy into the tumultuous sea of damp frieze coats, which aestuates in the outer court. But go on with noise, impudence, and a full face; tread on people's toes, and thrust them back with "by your leave," and you will find yourself soon seated in direct view of the judge, counsel, witness and prisoner. You will be taken for an attorney, or, at any rate, for an influential court witness. If you talk somewhat loud, and frown very angrily in the face of the tallest policeman, you may by the ignorant even be taken for a barrister.

In fact, into court you must come, there is no other place open to receive you. The big room at the hotel, in which we have been three times on such different occasions, the long big room where McKeon presided over so many drunken spirits—where poor Feemy made her last arrangements with her lover at the ball—and where so soon afterwards she was brought forward to give her evidence touching his death, while his cold body was lying dead on the table before her,—this long big room is now set apart for yet another purpose. The grand jury are to dine there, and already the knives and forks are laid out upon the long deal table. The little coffee-room—so called, though whiskey-room, or punch-room, or porter-room would be much the more appropriate name, unless indeed there is a kind of "lucus a non lucendo" propriety in the appellation—is full nearly to suffocation. There is not an unoccupied chair or corner of a table to be found.

Large men half wet through—reeking, smelling most unwholesomely as the rain steams up from their clothes—are keeping the cold out of their stomachs by various spirituous appliances. The room is half covered with damp straw, which has been kicked in from the passage; the windows are closed, and there is a huge fire burning on the other side of that moist mass of humanity. On entering the room you feel that you breathe nothing but second-hand rain; a sojourn there you find to be impossible; the porter drinkers are still in your bed-room, even on your bed up-stairs. What are you to do? where are you to go? Back home you cannot. You have a summons in your pocket; you have been unfortunately present when Mr. Terence O'Flanagan squeezed the fair hand of Miss Letitia Murphy; false Mr. Terence O'Flanagan would not come to the matrimonial altar when required; fair Miss Letitia Murphy demands damages, and you must swear to the fact of the hand having been squeezed as aforesaid. Who can tell when the case may come on? Rumour comes from the clerk of the peace, town clerk, or some other clerk who sits there in pride of place, always conspicuous under the judge's feet, and whispers that Letitia Murphy, spinster, is coming on next. Attorneys' clerks have been round diligently to all witnesses, especially as it seems to yourself, warning you that the important hour is at hand—that on no account may you be absent, so much as ten minutes' walk from the court. Vainly you think to yourself that it can hardly be of such vital import that you, her father's friend, saw little Letty Murphy's hand ensconced one evening in the brawny palm of that false Lothario O'Flanagan; yes, of serious import is it—if not to Letty, or to Terence—yet to that facetious barrister, Mr. O'Laugher, who, at your expense, is going to amuse the dull court for a brief half-hour,—and of importance to yourself, who are about to become the laughing-stock of your county for the next twelve months. It is, therefore, evident that you cannot leave the filthy town with its running gutters—the filthy inn with its steamy stinking atmosphere, and bed-room porter drinkers for good and all, and let Lothario O'Flanagan, Spinster Letty, Lawyers Allewinde and O'Laugher, with Justice Kilpatrick, settle the matter by themselves their own way; but that you must, willy nilly, in spite of rain, crowd, and offensive smell, stay and help to settle it with them. Into court therefore return, unfortunate witness; other shelter have you none; and now being a man of strong nerves,—except when put into a chair to be stared at by judge, bar, grand jury, little jury, attorney, galleries, &c., &c.,—you can push your way into a seat, and listen with attention to the quiddities of the legally erudite Mr. Allewinde, as on behalf of his client he ingeniously attempts—nay, as he himself afterwards boasts to the jury, succeeds in making that disconcerted young gentleman in the witness chair commit perjury.

Mr. Allewinde is a most erudite lawyer. He has been for many years employed by the crown in its prosecutions, and with great success. He knows well the art of luring on an approver, or crown witness, to give the information he wants without asking absolutely leading questions; he knows well how to bully a witness brought up on the defence out of his senses, and make him give evidence rather against than for the prisoner; and it is not only witnesses that he bullies, but his very brethren of the gown. The barristers themselves who are opposed to him, at any rate, the juniors, are doomed to bear the withering force of his caustic remarks.

"No, really, I cannot suffer this; witness, don't answer that question. The learned gentleman must be aware that this is irregular; my lord, I must appeal to you. Stop, stop; that can never be evidence," and so on:—the unfortunate junior, who fondly thought that with the pet witness now in the chair, he would be surely able to acquit his client, finds that he can hardly frame a question which his knowing foe will allow him to ask, and the great Mr. Allewinde convicts the prisoner not from the strength of his own case, but from his vastly superior legal acquirements.

How masterly is he in all the points of his profession as evinced in a criminal court. With what "becks, and smiles, and wreathed nods," he passes by his brethren on the prosecuting side, and takes his seat of honour. How charmingly he nods to the judge when his lordship lays down the law on some point in conformity with the opinion expressed by himself. How rapidly he throws to the wind the frivolous excuses of some juror wishing to escape the foreseen long night's confinement. How great is he on all points of panels—admissible and inadmissible evidence—replying and not replying. How thoroughly he knows the minute practice of the place; how he withers any attorney who may dare to speak a word on his own behalf, whilst asking questions of a witness on behalf of an otherwise undefended prisoner. How unceremoniously he takes the word out of the mouth of the, in his opinion, hardly competent junior barrister who is with him. How Demosthenic is his language when addressing the jury on the enormity of all agrarian offences; with what frightful, fearful eloquence does he depict the miseries of anarchy, which are to follow nonpayment of tithes, rents, and taxes; and with what energy does he point out to a jury that their own hearths, homes, and very existence depend on their vindicating justice in the instance before them.

Mr. Allewinde was never greater than in the case now before the court. A young farmer of the better class had been served with some disagreeably legal document on account of his non-payment of an arrear of rent; he had at the time about twenty acres of unripe oats on the ground for which the arrear was due; and he also held other ground for which he owed no arrear. On ascertaining that a distraint was to be put on the ground which owed the rent, he attended there with a crowd of countrymen, and would not allow the bailiff to put his foot upon the lands; the next day the bailiff came again with police in numbers at his heels, and found the twenty acres which had yesterday been waving with green crops, utterly denuded. Every blade had been cut and carried in the night, and was then stacked on the ground on which no distraint could be levied. In twelve hours, and those mostly hours of darkness, twenty acres had been reaped, bound, carted, carried, uncarted, and stacked, and the bailiff and the policemen had nothing to seize but the long, green, uneven stubble.

The whole country must have been there—the field must have been like a fair-green the whole night—each acre must have taken at least six men to reap—there must have been thirty head of cattle, of one sort or other, dragging it home; and there must have been upwards of a hundred women and children binding and loading. There could at any rate be no want of evidence to prove the fact. One would think so, with two or three hundred people with their tools, horses, and cars. But yet, when the landlord determined on prosecuting the tenant, there was not a person to be found who had seen the corn removed;—not one. In fact people who had not seen, as the bailiff had, the corn covering the broad field one day, and the same field bare the next, began to think that the fact was not so; and that the miraculous night's work was a fable. It was certain that the bailiff had been deterred from entering on the ground, but it was also certain that nothing but words had been used to deter him; he had not been struck or even pushed; he had only been frightened; and it seemed somewhat plain that his faint heart only had prevented him from completing his seizure—either that or some pecuniary inducement. Things were going badly with the bailiff, particularly when in answer to Mr. O'Laugher, he had been obliged to confess that on the morning on which the seizure should have been made he had taken—a thrifle of sperrits! a glass, perhaps—yes, maybe, two—yes he had taken two; three, suggested Mr. O'Laugher with a merely raised eyebrow; he couldn't say that he had not taken three; four? again inquired Mr. O'Laugher; he didn't think he had taken four. Could he swear he had not taken four? He would not swear he hadn't. He would not even swear he had not taken five;—nor even six, so conscientious a bailiff was he; but he was nearly sure he hadn't, and would swear positively he had not swallowed seven. Whereupon Mr. O'Laugher most ill-naturedly put down his morning dram at three quarters of a pint, and asked the unhappy bailiff whether that quantity was not sufficient to make him see a crop of oats in an empty field. It was going badly with the landlord and bailiff, and well with the energetic, night-working, fraudulent tenant;—and would have gone well with him, had he not determined to make assurance doubly sure.

A young man had been dining out, and had returned home at twelve o'clock on the night of the supposed miraculous reaping; he had at that hour walked home along the lane which skirted the field, and had seen no men—heard no noise—nor perceived either reapers, cars, horses, or any signs of work; yet he had passed the very gate of the field through which the corn must have come out, had it come out at all. Such was the effect of this young gentleman's evidence, when he was handed over to Mr. Allewinde by Mr. O'Laugher, with a courteous inquiry of his brother whether he wished to ask that gentleman any questions. Mr. Allewinde said that he would ask him a few questions, and the young gentleman began to tremble.

"Mr. Green, I think your name is," began Mr. Allewinde.

"Yes sir."

And then it appeared that Mr. Green absolutely remembered the night of the 12th September; had heard the rumour of the corn having been removed, but had not observed it growing there when he went to dinner; had dined at the house of the prisoner's father, about a mile beyond the field; had certainly passed the very field; could positively swear he was perfectly sober; was certainly not carried by drunk; had not observed the field especially; could not say he had looked at the field as he passed; had heard of the bailiff's retreat that morning; did not think to look at the ground where the mob had been; did not observe the place; will positively swear he heard nothing; was not walking in his sleep; could not swear whether the oats were standing at the time or not—whether the gate was open or shut—whether or no men were in the field; only he saw none; he believed it was moonlight.

"Why man! what did you see?" asked Mr. Allewinde.

"Nothing particular."

"Had you your eyes open?"

No answer.

"Now by virtue of your oath were your eyes open?"

No answer.

"Come, sir, I must, and will have an answer; on your solemn oath were your eyes open when you walked by that field?"

At last, after various renewed questions, the witness says, "No."

"Did you shut them by accident?"

After that question had been sufficiently often repeated, the witness again said, "No; he had been blinded;" and in the same way it was at last extracted from him that his ears had been stopped also, and that he had been led along the road by the field, that he might be able to swear that he had passed the place during the night without either seeing or hearing what was at the moment taking place there.

Oh that miserable witness! One could swear from the glassy look of his eyes that then also, during those awful questions, he could see nothing. The sweat rolled down his miserable face. That savage barrister appeared to him as a devil sent direct from the infernals, for his express behoof; so unmercifully did he tear him, and lacerate him; twenty times did he make him declare his own shame in twenty different ways. Oh! what a prize for a clever, sharp, ingenious, triumphant Counsellor Allewinde, that wicked false witness, with his shallow, detected device. He played with him like a cat does with a mouse—now letting him go for a moment, with the vain hope that he was to escape—then again pouncing on him, and giving him a fresh tear; till at last, when the young man was desired to leave the chair, one was almost inclined to detest the ingenuity of the ferocious lawyer more than the iniquity of the false witness.

This case was now over; the bailiff again held up his head; the landlord gained his cause; the farmer was sent to prison, and the blind and deaf witness sneaked out of town in shame and disgrace. This came of not letting well alone.

The Wednesday was now advanced, and it was settled that there would not be time for the great murder case, as poor Thady's affair was called. Besides, Mr. Allewinde was also to conduct that, and he wanted some rest after his exertions; and as he walked out with triumph, some minor cases were brought forward for disposal, and Mr. O'Laugher rushed into the other court to defend Terence O'Flanagan before Mr. Justice Kilpatrick, against the assaults made upon his pocket by that willow-wearing spinster, Letitia Murphy.

In rushed also all the loungers from the other court. In such a place as Carrick-on-Shannon, a breach of promise of marriage case is not an every day treat, and, consequently, men are determined to make the most of it. Counsellor O'Laugher runs his hands through his dark grey hair, opens wide his light blue eye, pulls out the needful papers from that bottomless bag, and though but the other moment so signally defeated in the other court, with sure trust in his own resources prepares for victory.

The case is soon stated. Mr. Terence O'Flanagan, with five hundred a-year, profit rents, out of the town and neigbourhood of Mannhamilton, has, to the palpable evidence of the whole and next baronies, been making up, as the phrase goes, to Letty Murphy, for the last six months. This has been no case of Bardell v. Pickwick, but a real downright matter of love-making on the one side, and love made on the other. Letters, too have been written, and are now to be read in court, to the great edification of the unmarried jury, and amusement of the whole assemblage; and the deceitful culprit has gone so far as to inform the father, Murphy, that he has a thousand pounds saved to settle, if he, the father, has another to add to it. All these things Mr. O'Malley puts forward on behalf of the injured Letty, in his opening speech, and then proceeds to bring evidence to prove them.

In the first place the father gives his evidence, and is cross-examined with great effect by Mr. O'Laugher; then the letters are read, and are agreed by all to be very affectionate, proper, agreeable love-letters; there is no cross-questioning them, for though answered, they will not answer; and our friend, who escaped but just now melancholy from the porter drinkers in his bed-room, is brought forward to prove the love-makings of the delinquent.

All Mr. O'Malley's questions he answers with great readiness and fluency, for it was for the purpose of answering them that he came forward. He states without hesitation that love-making to a considerable extent has been going on; that to his knowledge, and in his presence, most particular attentions have been paid by Mr. Terence to Miss Letty; that they have sat together, talked together, walked together, and whispered together to such an extent, that in his, the witness's, mind, they had for some time past been considered to be a regularly engaged couple; and that, moreover, he had himself seen Mr. Terence O'Flanagan squeezing the hand of Miss Letty. Having declared so much on behalf of the lady, he also was handed over to Mr. O'Laugher to be made to say what he could on behalf of the gentleman.

In answer to different questions, he stated that he himself was a middle-aged gentleman, about forty—a bachelor moving in good society—sufficiently so to be acquainted with its usages; that he was in the habit of finding himself in company with ladies—married ladies and single; he confessed, after some interlocutions, that he did prefer the company of the latter, and that he preferred the good-looking to the plain—the young to the old; he would not state whether he had made up his own mind on the subject of matrimony, and had a very strong objection to inform the jury whether he was engaged. Was his objection insurmountable? Yes, it was; whereupon it was decided by the court that the witness need not answer the question, as he could not be called on to criminate himself. He had, probably, however, been in love? suggested Mr. O'Laugher; but he wouldn't say that he had. A little smitten, perhaps? Perhaps he had. Was, perhaps, of a susceptible heart? No answer. And accustomed to Cupid's gentler wounds? No answer. Hadn't he usually in his heart a prepossession for some young lady? Mr. O'Laugher must insist on having an answer to this question; as it was absolutely necessary the jury should know the nature of a witness's temperament, whose evidence was chiefly one of opinion, and not of facts; how could they otherwise know what weight to give to his testimony? Hadn't he usually a prepossession in his heart for some young lady? There was a great deal of hesitation about this question, but at last he was got to inform the jury on his oath that he usually—in fact always—did entertain such a prepossession. Was he not fond of conversing with the lady who for the time might be the object of this feeling? He supposed he was. Of walking with her? No, not particularly of walking with her. Did he never walk with his loved one? He didn't think he ever did, except by accident. Weren't such happy accidents of frequent occurrence? They might be. Weren't they gratifying accidents when they did occur? Why, yes; he supposed they were. Then he was fond of walking with his loved one? Why, taking it in that way, he supposed he was. Mr. O'Laugher supposed so too. Did he never whisper to this loved object? No, never. What, never? Never. What; could he swear that he had never whispered to the present object of his adoration? He had no object of adoration. Well, then, object of love? He had no object of love; that is, he wouldn't say whether he had or not. He thought it very hard that he should be asked all these questions. Well, then, object of prepossession. Could he swear that he had never whispered with the present object of his prepossession? Never—except in church; that was to say, he couldn't tell. Never except in church—never walk with her except by accident! Mr. O'Laugher surmised that the witness was a very cautious fellow—quite an old bird—not to be caught with chaff. Did he never sit by her? Sit by who? By the object of his prepossession? He supposed he might, at dinner, or at a party, or a concert or a ball.

"What! sit by the object you love best at a concert, and not whisper to her between the tunes—and you a Connaught man!" said Mr. O'Laugher. "Come, mend your reputation a little; wasn't that a slip you made, when you said now you'd never whispered to her at a concert?" Perhaps he had at a concert. "Well, now, I thought so. I thought by your complexion you wouldn't sit by a pretty girl, and take no notice of her. Did you never squeeze a girl's hand while you were whispering to her?" He couldn't remember. "Now, on your oath did you never squeeze a girl's hand?" He might have done so. "Did you never put your arm round a girl's waist?" At last the witness owned he might have done even that. "And now, one question, and I've done. Did you never kiss a girl?" No answer. "Come, that's the last. After all you've owned you needn't haggle at that; out with it, man, it must come at last. Did you never kiss a girl?" Alas for the sake of morality, the witness was at length obliged to own that he had perpetrated the enormity. "And," asked Mr. O'Laugher with a look of great surprise, "were you never proceeded against for damages? Was an action for breach of promise of marriage never brought against you?"

No, never; the witness had never been in such a predicament.

"What, never? You who have declared, I won't say unblushingly, for heaven knows you have blushed enough about it, but openly and on your oath, that you have always some different object of affection, with whom you walk, sit, talk, and whisper; whose hand you squeeze, round whose waist you put your arm (a crime, by the by, never imputed to my client), whom you even confess that you kiss; and yet you sit here secure, unassailed, unsolicited for damages, unengaged, as you lead us to suppose. What are the fathers and brothers of Connaught doing to let such a hydra-headed monster as thou near their doors—such a wolf into their sheep-pens? Go down, thou false Lothario. Go down, thou amorous Turk, and remember that a day of retribution may yet come for yourself."

The unfortunate witness hurried out of court—ran through the pelting rain to the inn—crammed his brushes and pantaloons into the carpet-bag in spite of damp, farmers, and burly porter drinkers—paid a guinea for the bed in which he had never slept, and hiring a post-car, hurried from the scene of his disgrace, regardless of the torrents which were falling.

On the Wednesday morning, for it had been forgotten till then, a summons was served on Hyacinth Keegan to attend as a witness at Thady's trial, on the prisoner's behalf; and as he was living in the town the service was quite in sufficient time, and there was no possible means by which he could avoid the disagreeable duty which was thus imposed upon him. He was much annoyed, however, for he felt that there were no questions, which he could be asked on the subject, which it would not annoy him to answer. He had been out but little since the day on which he had been so savagely treated at Drumleesh—indeed he had not been able to go out till quite lately; and he now most thoroughly wished that he was bad enough to obtain a medical certificate, which would prevent the necessity of his attending in court. That, however, was impossible, and he, therefore, sat himself to consider what answers he would give to the questions they would be most likely to ask him. Regard for his oath he had none; but there were some most disagreeable questions which, if asked him, he would be obliged to answer with the truth, for on those subjects he would be unable to lie without detection. His rancour against Thady was unabated. Unless young Macdermot were hung he would be unable to avenge the mutilated stump which crippled all his exertions, and now rendered his existence miserable.

He flattered himself, however, that Brady's evidence would render that event certain; and whatever annoying questions might be put to himself on the defence, he was determined that Brady should swear to enough on the direct examination to ensure his purpose.

On the Wednesday evening it was decided that Thady's case was to come on first in the criminal court on Thursday morning, and on the same Wednesday evening Keegan sent for Brady into his office.

Pat was now regularly installed as the attorney's managing man on the property, and there was therefore nothing very remarkable in his sending for him, although he was going to be a witness on the morrow.

"Did you hear, Brady," said the master, "that they've summoned me for the trial to-morrow?"

"Iss, yer honour; they war telling me so up at the court; there's Dolan is summoned too."

"Who's Dolan?"

"He's one of the boys, Mr. Keegan, as war in it that night at Mrs. Mehan's."

"Well, and what can he say? he can't say Macdermot wasn't there. He can't do any harm, Pat; for if he was to swear that he wasn't there, there's enough to prove that he was."

"No, yer honour, it isn't that he'll be saying, but he'll be saying Captain Ussher's name wasn't mentioned, or may be that the boys were merely taking their drink, innocent like; that's what I be afeared—and that's what Corney 'll say; you'll see av he don't; he's the biggest liar in Drumleesh."

"Oh, they'd soon knock all that out of him; besides, isn't he one of these potheen boys?"

"Faix he is so, Mr. Keegan."

"Then they'll not believe him—they'll believe you a deal sooner than him that way; but you must be plain about this, Brady, that they were talking about Ussher that night—d'ye hear? Be d——d but if you let them shake you about that you're lost. D'ye hear? Why don't you answer me, eh?"

"Oh! shure, your honour, I'll be plain enough; certain sure the Captain's name war mentioned."

"Mentioned! yes, and how was it mentioned? Didn't you tell me that Reynolds and young Macdermot were talking broadly about murdhering him? Didn't they agree to kill him—to choke him in a bog hole—or blow his brains out?"

"It war your honour they war to put in a bog hole."

"D——n them! I'll have 'em before I've done. But don't you know that Macdermot, Reynolds, and the other fellow agreed to put an end to Ussher? Why you told me so twenty times."

"I b'lieve they did; but faix, I ain't shure I heard it all rightly myself, yer honour; I warn't exactly one of the party."

"That won't do, Brady; you told me distinctly that Reynolds and Macdermot swore together to kill the man; and you must swear to that in court. Why the barrister has been told that you can prove it."

"But, Mr. Keegan, do you wish me now to go and hang myself? You would not wish a poor boy to say anything as'd ruin hisself?"

"Be d——d, but some one has been tampering with you. You know you'll be in no danger, as well as I do; and by heavens if you flinch now it'll be worse for you. Mind, I want you to say nothing but the truth. But you know Ussher's death was settled among them; and you must say it out plainly—d'ye hear? And I tell you what, Brady, if you give your evidence like a man you'll never be the worse of those evenings you spent at Mohill at Mrs. Mulready's, you know. But if you hesitate or falter, as sure as you stand there, they'll come against you; and then I'll not be the man to help you out of the scrape."

"But, Mr. Keegan, yer honour, they do be saying that iv I brings out all that, it'll hang the young masther out and out, and then I'll have his blood upon my conscience."

"Have the divil on your conscience. Isn't he a murderer out and out? and, if so, shouldn't you tell the truth about it? Why, you fool, it's only the truth. What are you afraid of? after telling me so often that you would go through with it without caring a flash for any one!"

"But you see there's so much more of a ruction about it now through the counthry than there war. Counsellor Webb and all thim has made Mr. Thady's name so great, that there'd be no pace for a boy at all av he war to say a word agin him."

"Then it's a coward you are afther all, Brady?"

"No, yer honour, I'm no coward; but it's a bad thing living in a counthry, where all the boys is sworn to stretch you."

"Nonsense, Pat; did they ever stretch me? and haven't I done as bad and worse to them twenty times. They're trying to frighten you out of your duty, and you're going to let them. Any way, I see you are not the man for me. I thought you had more pluck in you."

"Why thin, Mr. Keegan, I've pluck enough; but faix, I don't like hanging the young man thin—and now it's out."

"Very well—then you'll be transported for perjury, that's all; all the things you've to swear to have been sent written out to the Counsellor; and when you contradict in court what you have already declared to be the truth they'll prosecute you for perjury, and a deal of good you'll do young Macdermot afther all!"

After a few more arguments of a similar nature, Brady was again reduced to his allegiance, and at last was dismissed, having promised to swear stiffly both that Ussher's death had been agreed on at the meeting at Mrs. Mehan's, and also that in private conversation with him (Pat Brady) Macdermot had frequently expressed his determination of being revenged on Ussher for the injury he was doing to his sister. And Hyacinth Keegan betook himself to the company of the fair partner of his prosperity and misfortunes, comforting himself with the idea that he was sure of success in his attempts to secure Thady's conviction, and flattering himself that Mr. O'Malley could at the worst only ask him some few teasing questions about the property.



CHAPTER XXIX.

THADY'S TRIAL IS COMMENCED.

On the same evening, namely that immediately before the trial, Father John visited Thady in prison, and it was the last time that they were to meet before the fate of the latter was decided. The priest had constantly visited the young man in his confinement, and had done all in his power to support and cheer his spirits under the horrible circumstances in which he was placed, and not without success. Thady had borne his incarceration and distress with the greatest courage. When remaining at Aughacashel among the lawless associates with whom he had so foolishly looked for safety, he had completely lost his fortitude and power of endurance; he was aware that he was doing what was in every sense culpable, and he then could not but look on himself as a murderer flying from justice; but now he had learned to see what was really criminal in what he had done, and what was venial; and though the last five months had been spent in prison, and though he felt by no means sanguine of his acquittal, he had, nevertheless, never regretted that he had given himself up.

Father John had again to-day seen Mr. O'Malley, who now that he had the affair thoroughly at his fingers' ends, seemed to be almost sanguine of success, and consequently the good priest himself was correspondingly elated.

"I trust in God, Thady," said he, "I confidently trust you will be with me at the Cottage to-morrow night, or at any rate the next. The Cottage shall be your home for some time, my boy, if they allow you any home in the country. I don't want to give you false hopes, but I don't think any jury can convict you. I'm sure Mr. O'Malley thinks so too."

"I don't think so, Father John; it may be so, but I don't think so; it's a comfort to me to know I never meant his death, although he was doing what might have tempted me to shoot him, av I'd had a pistol in my hand; for as I sit here he was dragging her down the avenue by the waist. But I never thought to kill him, and though I think they will hang me, I feel that I haven't the weight of murdher on my hands."

"You haven't, Thady; indeed you may say you haven't. I that should teach you to repent your sins, not to hide them from your own heart, tell you that you haven't. But should they condemn you, there are those that will have. But God forbid—may God in his great mercy forbid it."

"But, Father John, what'll Feemy do? what will the owld man do when I am—when I'm gone? Keegan 'll have all now. She'll be turned out to beg across the world; and what'll ever become of her?"

"Your father'll be cared for, Thady. Though no one else should see to him, I will, for your sake. He's very infirm; you'll be astonished when you see him; but while he lives and while I have a bit of bread to share with him, or a roof to shelter him, for your sake, he shall never want it."

Thady pressed the priest's hand between his own.

"What a thing it is to have a friend like you! but Feemy—who'll provide for Feemy? she'll be the only one left of the name when I'm gone; there'll be nothing left but her; house and family 'll be gone then, and except for poor Feemy, there'd be an end of the whole concern."

"Don't go on that way," said Father John, with tears in his eyes. "You'll be able to see after, and live with your own sister yet; and who knows but you may yet beat Keegan out of Ballycloran?"

"Oh, no, Father John! av they don't hang me out and out—av they don't put an end to me altogether, I'll be transported, or sent back here to gaol. I'll never be at Ballycloran again. Bad as the place is, I loved it. I think it's all the throuble I had with it, and with the tinants, that made me love it so. God forgive me—I was hard enough to some of them!"

Father John remained with him till the evening was far advanced, and then left him, promising to be in court on the morrow.

"Let me see you there, Father John," said he. "Stand near me whilst it's going on; it'll be a comfort to me to have one friend near me among so many strangers, and at such a time."

"I will, my boy. I must leave the court when Feemy is to come, for I've promised to be with Mrs. McKeon when she brings her in; but excepting that, I'll stand as near you as they'll let me."

The priest then left his friend, and Thady was once more alone in his cell, about to pass the last of many long, tedious nights of suspense. There he sat, on his iron bedstead in his gloomy cell, with his eyes fixed upon vacancy, thinking over the different events of his past life, and trying to nerve himself for the fate which, he too truly believed, was in store for him. Thady's disposition had not been prone to hope; he had never been too sanguine—never sanguine enough. From the years to which his earliest memory could fall back, he had been fighting an earnest, hard battle with the world's cares, and though not thoroughly vanquished, he had always been worsted. He had never experienced what men called luck, and he therefore never expected it. Few men in any rank of life had known so little joy as he had done, or had so little pleasure; his only object in life had been to drive the wolf from his father's door and to keep a roof over him and his sister.

Had patient industry and constant toil been able to have effected this, he would have been, perhaps not happy, but yet not discontented; this, however, circumstances had put out of his power, and he felt that the same uncontrollable circumstances had now brought him into his present position. He knew little of the Grecian's doctrine of necessity; but he had it in his heart that night, when he felt himself innocent, and was at the same time assured that all the kind efforts of his friends would not save him from his fate—a hangman's rope and the county gallows.

There he sat the greater part of that night alone on his cold bedside, not knowing whether he was warm or cold—not perceiving whether it was light or dark; and no one but God might know the thoughts that passed through his untutored brain, or the feelings which kindled his warm, though rugged heart. Did he complain that though honest, industrious, and patient, ignominy and death should be his probable doom? Had he bitter hatred in his heart for those who had driven him to his fate? Did he still love those who had evinced so little sympathy with him? Sympathy! Ah! how could he miss that which he had never felt, till Father John had blessed him with his kind words! His love had not been that conscious love which requires kindness to nurture it, and love again to keep it warm. He was not aware himself how well he loved his father and his sister. His lot had been thrown with them; he had passed his life with them, and the feelings, which in a selfish man are given up to self, had with him been turned on those to whose care it had seemed that his life should be dedicated.

I do not say that he looked forward to a probable death without a shudder, or to so speedy a termination of his career, without a wish that, unfortunate as it had been, it might be prolonged; but it was the disgrace, and the circumstances of his fate, which made by far the greater portion of his misery. Could he be but once quiet in his grave, and have done with it all—be rid of the care, turmoil, and uneasiness, he would have been content. Could he have been again unborn—uncreated! He had once repined to Father John, that existence had been for him a necessary evil; and though checked by the priest for the impiety of the thought, was it odd if he often thought, that he was one of those for whom it would have been better had they never been born?

About three or four in the morning, he fell asleep, and was awakened by Father John about eight; he dressed himself in his best clothes—those in which he had been accustomed to go to mass—ate his breakfast, and about ten o'clock was led out of gaol, handcuffed, into the court-house. The gaol at Carrick-on-Shannon is not far from the court-house, and as they are both built on a neck of land running into the river, no portion of the town has to be traversed; but yet there was a great crowd collected to see the poor fellow pass by. This was the first of the bitter moments to which he had so constantly looked forward for the last few months. At length, however, he was in the dock, and here the high wooden palings, twelve feet above the ground on which he had to stand, would screen him from the view of all, save the miserable prisoners beside him and the policemen who had brought him in,—until he should be called on to take his place at the bar.

After waiting there for about half an hour, sitting on the rude benches which surrounded the interior of the dock, with his eyes fixed on the red lappets of the gaoler's coat which hung over the palings as he sat upon the bar, he heard the noise of steps in the court suddenly increased, and the sound of voices hushed; the judge was taking his seat. Mr. Baron Hamilton, accompanied by a fashionably dressed young gentleman with a white wand, entered the court at a side-door, passed behind the jury-box, and sat down on the seat of judgment, under the dusty red canopy which for many years had nodded over the wisdom of Ireland's soundest lawyers.

Had that piece of red moreen been gifted with an ear to hear, and a tongue to tell, what an indifferent account would it give of the veracity of judges and of the consciences of lawyers! How many offences had it heard stigmatised by his lordship as the most heinous that had ever been brought before him in his judicial capacity! How many murderers, felons, and robbers, described as poor harmless, innocent, foolish boys, brought into trouble by a love of frolic! How many witnesses, vainly endeavouring to tell the truth, forced by the ingenuity of lawyers into falsehood and perjury! What awful denunciations and what light wit, almost in the same breath! Of what laughter hardly suppressed by judicial authority would it tell—what agonizing sobs altogether unsuppressable would it describe—how many a clever, smiling, self-sufficient barrister would it, from long knowledge, have learnt to laugh to scorn—of how many a sharp attorney would it declare the hidden ways! But yards of red moreen are fitting witnesses for judicial gravities and legal exercises. They hang profoundly, gravely—nay, all but solemnly—over the exposition of the criminal. They lend authority to the wrath, and protection to the wit of the wigged. They awe the criminal, repress the witnesses, inspire the juror, silence the spectator, absorb the dust, and tell no tales.

And now the judge having taken his place, the lesser men in office being duly seated beneath him, and the contending barristers having sufficiently dived into their blue bags, the prisoner is summoned, under various indictments, to take his trial for the murder of Myles Ussher; whereupon Thady is called upon by the gaoler, and, rising from his seat, takes his stand at the bar. In his position there, he is just enabled to raise his arm to the railing of the dock, and to rest his hand upon it during the ten long, horrid, wasting hours which he is destined to pass in his present painful position. His face is pale, and—always thin and sad—now thinner and sadder than ever; his eyes wander round the court, and as they at length alight on Father John, who is seated next to Mr. McKeon on the attorneys' benches, a kind of gentle smile softens his features, and shows how great a relief he feels the presence of a friend to be. In answer to the clerk of the crown, he declares himself not guilty, professes himself ready for his trial, and the business of the day commences.

The first thing that has to be done is to call over the long panel, and the names of all competent persons in the county, from whom the jury is to be selected. But even preparatory to this, the counsel for the defence commence their fight. Mr. O'Laugher, who, as the phrase goes, is with Mr. O'Malley, begins by declaring that the list from which the names are read is an illegal list—a foolish, useless, unauthoritative list—nothing but balderdash, moonshine, and waste paper—all empty sounds, and consisting of a string of names as little to the purpose in the present case as a regimental roll-call. The sub-sheriff, who with infinite clerkly care, and much sub-shrieval experience, has made out the list, opens wide his disturbed ears, and begins to feel somewhat uncomfortable. Mr. O'Laugher goes on to declare that the present list, instead of being one properly, legally, and expressly drawn out for March 183—, is only a copy of the one in use during the summer assizes in the last year, and assures the judge with much indignant emphasis, that he cannot allow his client to submit to the injustice of receiving a verdict from a jury composed under such atrocious circumstances.

The objection is listened to with as much gravity as though a statement had been made that the prisoner had been in Newfoundland at the time of Ussher's death, and Mr. Allewinde's assistant begins to argue the case. The sub-sheriff and his two clerks are put into the chair, and have to swear one thing and another. Books are lugged into court—dirty papers overhauled—thick volumes quoted and consulted—precedents urged—objections answered—a great deal of self-confidence shown. At last, after a weary hour's talk, it seems somehow decided that the sub-sheriff was in the right of it—that the list is correct, and that the prisoner may be tried. But Mr. O'Laugher is not in the least chagrined at the victory of his adversary; one would say, from his countenance, that his only object had been to delay the business for an hour, and that he triumphed in his success.

The list is accordingly read over, and the householders of County Leitrim are summoned to appear and answer to their names under a penalty of two pounds. A lamentable deficiency, however, is apparent; one only here and there answers to his name as it is called out in the sonorous and practised voice of the clerk of the crown. A notice is then given that they will be again invoked under a penalty of ten pounds, which, in spite of the fear which pervades the minds of jurymen that this will be a lock-up affair, entailing a bedless night and a meagre supper, surreptitiously supplied through the windows of the court-house, has the desired effect, and Cornelius O'Reilly, Patrick Tierney, Anthony Reynolds, &c., &c., reply to the call, and the court becomes sufficiently full of strong, thick-set, comfortable men.

This is only the long panel. Now the jury has to be formed. To twenty names the prisoner is entitled to object from caprice, and Mr. O'Laugher is not the man to give up one of the twenty. Then he can object to as many more as he chooses, on showing cause, and you may be sure Mr. O'Laugher has a great many causes to show. One man has lived near young Macdermot all his life, has been a friend of his, must have formed an opinion on the case, and is therefore not fit: another man has been his enemy, and is therefore not fit; a third man used to drive with Captain Ussher twice a week; a fourth lived in Mohill; a fifth at Drumsna; a sixth did not live in the county at all; a seventh had not a house of his own, and so on. Why, it appeared there was not a proper juror in the county! On all these objections Mr. O'Laugher was beaten; and as he was beaten on each, he indefatigably prepared for the next.

Then the jurors themselves objected. They unblushingly declared themselves unfit;—asserted that they could not depend upon themselves to give a true verdict, and assured the judge that their minds would be improperly biassed by circumstances on one side or the other. What atrocious characters!—what self-condemned miscreants! Why does not the judge instantly, with that stern look he knows so well how to assume, turn them out of court, bid them make way for honest men, and send them home, disgraced for ever, to their sorrowing families? Does he do so? No indeed! he picks his teeth while Mr. Allewinde assures this recusant or the other that he has no doubt but that he will make a most eligible juror; and at last, with considerable delay, a little trial takes place in each case, and two other jurymen have to decide on their oaths, whether Terence Murphy stands indifferent between our Lord and Sovereign the King and the prisoner at the bar; and to enable them to decide, they have to hear all the evidence in the case.

The twelve are at last sworn—the proper officer repeating in each case those awful words, "Juror, look upon the prisoner. Prisoner, look upon the juror. You shall well and truly try, and true deliverance make, between our Lord and Sovereign the King and the prisoner at the bar—so help you God!"

As this injunction in each case reached Thady's ear, he moved his eyes upon the man who was then being sworn, as if demanding from him that true deliverance to which he felt himself entitled. And now the prisoner having pleaded, the indictments read, and the jury armed with pen, ink, and paper, Mr. Allewinde, full of legal dignity and intellectual warmth, rises to his subject. We will not follow him through the whole of the long narrative which he, with great practised perspicuity, and in the clearest language, laid before the jury, for we already know the facts which he had to detail. He first of all described the death of Ussher; then stated that he could prove that the prisoner had killed him, and having informed the jury that doubtless the prisoner's sister was in the act of eloping with the deceased when he met his death, launched out into a powerful description of the present dreadful state of the country. He told the jury that it was in his power to prove to them that the prisoner was one of an illegal society who had often threatened Ussher, and that he had but a day or two previous to the affray met a sworn portion of his own tenants for the purpose of planning the murder. He went on to tell the jury that they were not to allow themselves to be deceived by the idea that the murder could not have been premeditated, because there existed a presumption that the prisoner was not aware of Ussher's expected presence in the avenue; for that the fact of the murder having been talked over deliberately, and then executed, afforded the strongest evidence that the prisoner was at the time lying in wait for the deceased; and that, through the servants, or from other means, he had made himself cognisant of the projected elopement. He then, preparatory to examining the witnesses, concluded in the following words,—

"Gentlemen of the jury,—You are probably all aware that the prisoner is from that rank in life to which the greatest number of yourselves belong; and you cannot but see that the fact of his being so, greatly increases the magnitude of his presumed crime. Far be it from me to urge you on this account to come to a conviction, should the evidence prove in any way deficient; but I do implore you, if you value the peace of your country—the comfort of your hearths—the safety of your houses—and the protection of your property; not to allow yourselves to be led away by a feeling of false sympathy, or to be improperly actuated by the idea that the deed was done in legitimate defence of the prisoner's sister, if the evidence do not prove that such was the case. I do implore you to divest yourselves of any such preconceived notions. Did the evidence merely go to show that Mr. Ussher was killed by the brother whilst eloping with the sister, it would doubtless be fair that the circumstance should be taken into your consideration; but when you shall have heard it proved that the death of this unfortunate man was deliberately talked over, canvassed, and decided on by the very man by whom it was executed, you will only fall into the shallow device by which the prisoner has endeavoured to deceive you, did you not clearly perceive that he has merely used the fact of his sister's elopement as a favourable opportunity for the completion of his project. Gentlemen, I shall now proceed to call the different witnesses, satisfied that when you shall have heard their evidence, you will have no difficulty in coming to a verdict in the case."

The first witness called was Dr. Blake. He stated that he had examined the body the day after Ussher had met his death; that he had no doubt death had been occasioned by two heavy blows, one of which had fractured the skull immediately over the temple, and which was of itself quite sufficient to cause instantaneous death; that he should presume these blows to have been inflicted with some heavy blunt instrument, and that he considered the stick then produced in court and shown to him was such as had probably been used on the occasion.

This witness was not cross-examined.

Biddy was next called, and took her seat in the chair with much trepidation; but her usual womanly volubility soon returned to her, and she gave her evidence fluently enough. She stated that her mistress had confided to her her intention of eloping with Ussher on the morning of the evening on which he had been killed; that in obedience to her mistress's commands, she had walked down the road towards Mohill, and had met Ussher in a gig, and had put a parcel for her mistress into it; that when she returned to the house, she believed her master—that was the prisoner—was in the house, in her mistress's sitting-room; that shortly after her return she saw him come into the hall; that he then told her to go in to his sister, and that Captain Ussher was dead. She did not know what became of him after that, and that she had not seen him from that moment till the present one.

Mr. O'Laugher then asked her, whether she had told any one of her mistress's intention of eloping with Ussher, and she replied that she had not—that she had never opened her lips on the subject to any one before she heard the prisoner say that Captain Ussher was dead. She also stated that it was her young master's habit to go out to the stables every night.

She also was then allowed to go down, and Frederick Brown was called. He proved that Ussher had revealed to him his plan of running off with Feemy, and he stated, that not thinking much about it, he had told three or four friends of the circumstance, and that he could not tell whether or not it might in that manner have got round to the ears of the prisoner.

Mr. O'Laugher in his cross-examination bothered this young gentleman considerably, but as neither the questions nor the answers are material to the story, it would be useless to repeat them.

The next witness was Pat Brady, and as the verdict to which the jury came, depended in a great degree on his evidence, it will be given as nearly as possible in detail.

Having given his name, he stated that at the time of Ussher's death he was in the employment of the prisoner; that he had been his confidential servant, and was intimate with all his habits; that on the night when the deceased was killed, at some time, he supposed, about half-past nine o'clock, his master had entered the kitchen at Ballycloran, and had desired him, Brady, to follow him out into the avenue; that his master, when in the avenue, had told him that he had killed Captain Ussher.

By this time the counsel had ceased asking questions, and as the witness was telling his own story, we will leave it in his words.

"I thought it war poking his fun at me, yer honours—for I knowed the Captain hadn't been at Ballycloran that night, and that the masther had been ating his dinner at home, so I didn't be taking much notice of what he war saying, till we war mostly half down the avenue, when Mr. Thady told me the body war there. Well, yer honours—what with the night, and what wid the trees it was a'most too dark to see; but I felt the man's body with my foot, and then I know'd it war thrue enough what the masther was afther saying. I axed no questions thin, for I knew there'd been ill blood betwixt them, and when I comed to remember myself, I wasn't that much surprised. But Mr. Thady axed me what we'd be doing wid the body, and I can't exactly take upon myself to say what I answered; but, at last, he said as how we would take it down to Mrs. Mehan's as keeps the shebeen shop beyond Ballycloran. He then told me something about Miss Feemy and the Captain—as how he was carrying her off by force like, and that war why he'd stretched him. Well, yer honours, at the bottom of the avenue, at the gate like,—though for the matter of that, there ain't no gate there,—we discovered the Brown Hall gig, and Mr. Fred's crop-tailed bay pony horse standing in the middle of the road—and the masther bid me take the body away to the police at Carrick, saying he would be off at oncet to the mountains in Aughacashel. Well, yer honours, this I did—I left the Captain's body with the police—I took the gig to Brown Hall—and I brought home Miss Feemy's bundle as had been left there in the gig, when the Captain came out into the avenue—and that's the long and the short of what I knows about it, yer honours—at laste, all I knows about the murder."

"The prisoner then owned to you," continued Mr. Allewinde, "that it was he who killed Captain Ussher?"

"Shure he made no bones about it all—but told me straight out that he'd killed him in the avenue."

"Did he say why he had done so?"

"Faix I don't remember his saying thin why he'd done it—and I didn't think to ask him. He was in a flurry like, as war nathural, and he and I carrying the dead man that'd been hearty only a few minutes afore! But shure, yer honour knows the thing had been talked over."

"What thing had been talked over?"

"Why, the Captain's death."

"You mean to say by that, that arrangements had been made by certain persons to kill Captain Ussher?"

"I don't know about arrangements; but there war boys through the counthry determined to have a fling at him."

"Now I am going to ask you a question particularly affecting the prisoner, and one to which you must give me a direct answer. Have you ever been in the prisoner's company, when he and others have expressed their determination to murder Captain Ussher?"

"Faix, I don't know about dethermination and murder, but I've heard him threatened."

"Have you heard him threatened with murder?"

"I've heard the boys say that he would be undher the sod that day six months."

"Have you heard Captain Ussher threatened with death in the prisoner's presence?"

"I don't know that they ever said death or murder; they don't spake out that way; av they war going to hole a chap, it's giving him his quiatis or his gruel they'd be talking about."

"Well, now, on your oath, have you ever, in the prisoner's presence, heard such language used respecting Captain Ussher as made you think that he was to be killed?"

"Didn't I tell yer honour I thought all along how he'd be killed."

"Were you ever at Mrs. Mulready's in Mohill?"

"I war."

"Did you ever hear Captain Ussher's name mentioned there?"

"I did."

"Now tell the jury as nearly as you can what was said respecting him there."

"Why a lot of boys swore together over a noggin or two of sperrits, to put him undher the sod—that's all; but shure, yer honour, Mr. Thady, that's him there," and he pointed to the dock, "was niver at Mother Mulready's."

"Well, but when the boys swore to put the Captain under the sod was the prisoner's name mentioned?"

"Oh, it war ofthen."

"And what was said about him?"

"Why, yer honour it was this way—and I'll tell you all I know about it off hand—and thin you'll not be throubling yer honour's self wid all these questions. The boys war mostly tenants to Mr. Thady here—and they did be saying that av so—av Mr. Thady would jine them in putting down the peelers and the Captain—they'd undhertake Mr. Keegan'd never put a second foot on the lands of Ballycloran; and they war the more hot about this, as they knew Mr. Thady war agin the Captain about his sisther, for he thought thim two were too thick like; and he used to be saying as how Ussher war playing his thricks with Miss Feemy. Well, along of this—and knowing as how the masther were agin Mr. Keegan too, they thought he'd jine in; and to bring him round, they swore niver to pay the rint afore he did. Well, yer honour, I was one night at the Widdy's, that's Mother Mulready's, for I'd gone there knowing as how the tenants 'd be in it, and I war noticing them to be up with the masther on Friday next about the rint. Afther I'd been telling 'em all to be up at Ballycloran, they got swearing that divil a foot they'd stir to the place, or divil a penny they'd pay any more, because Mr. Thady here war so thick with the Captain. This war jist afther the row up to Loch Sheen, when three boys war locked up about some squall—and this made the rest more bitter agin the Captain. Well, when they got swearing this way, I axed 'em, why not go to the masther like a man, and tell him what they thought. Wid that they agreed to come up to Mary's wedding—that's Mary McGovery, yer honour, as is my sisther, and who war to be married the Thursday; and so they parted, and a lot on 'em swore that blessed night that the Captain should be under the sod that day six months. Well, yer honour, the next morning Mr. Keegan called down to Ballycloran about law business, and somehow there war words atwixt him and Mr. Thady, and from that they got to blows, and I b'lieve somehow Mr. Keegan got the best of it, and Mr. Thady was a little hurted, and this made him bittherer nor iver."

"But that did not make him bitterer against Captain Ussher, did it?" asked a juror.

"Faix thin, I think it did, yer honour," answered Pat. "It seemed to make him bitther altogether agin everybody; when I war talking to him aftherwards about coming down to the wedding, he seemed to be trating all the world alike. But the Captain and Mr. Keegan especial. Well, when the supper war over, and the boys were begun dancing, Mr. Thady come down and immediately comed into the inside room, where the men war sitting dhrinking, and I war wid them: thin one of the men, a tinent to Mr. Thady, up and tould the masther all as I've tould yer honours, of what took place at the Widdy's in Mohill, and how av Mr. Thady would jine them to rid the counthry of the Captain, they'd stand to him, and wouldn't let Mr. Keegan on the lands of Ballycloran, right or wrong. Wid that there war a dale of shilly-shallying—but at last the masther said as how he would jine the boys in ridding the counthry of the Captain, and he thin agreed to come down to the Widdy's the next night, or that afther, to get the secret signs and the pass-words, and to take the oaths they war to swear him to. Wid that he tuk an oath thin niver to tell nothin' of what had passed that night. After that, I don't remember rightly how it war, but he got up to look for Miss Feemy, and she war out walking in the road wid the Captain. Well, Mr. Thady went down the road afther thim—and there war a ruction in the road betwixt thim two; but as I warn't there I can't say exactly what was said one side or the other. By the time they come agin to Mrs. Mehan's door, Father John, that's Father Magrath, you know, war there, and made the pace betwixt 'em; and that's all I can tell yer honours about it av I war to sit here till doomsday."

"You said just now," said Mr. Allewinde, "that the prisoner agreed to join the men assembled at Mrs. Mehan's in ridding the country of Captain Ussher; now what was meant by ridding the country of him?"

"Why isn't it ridding the counthry of him? yer honour knows what that means as well as ere a boy in the barony."

"Perhaps I do; but you must tell the jury what you mane by it."

"Is it I? I didn't mane nothin' at all: it warn't I as said it—or as war ever a going to do it."

"What did you suppose was the meaning of those who did make use of the phrase?"

"I 'sposed the boys did mane to get rid of the Captain out of the counthry; jist that, yer honour."

"But how did you suppose they were to get rid of him?"

"Oh, yer honour, I niver heard the particklars; I niver knew nothin' of the plan. I warn't one of them, you know."

"But the prisoner agreed to join them in any plan, or in some plan for ridding the country of Captain Ussher?"

"He did, yer honour; shure I said that before."

"Now, you said some time ago, that when you first discovered that Captain Ussher had been killed by the prisoner, and that when you came to remember yourself, you weren't much surprised. Now, thank God! it is, at any rate in this county, a very uncommon thing to find that one man has killed another. Can you tell the jury why you were not surprised at such an event as that?"

"Becase I knowed there war ill-blood betwixt the two."

"But men do not kill one another whenever they quarrel, do they?"

"Faix, they do sometimes."

"Did you ever, of your own knowledge, know a man before who killed another?"

"Oh dear! yes; shure I did."

"Well, tell us an instance."

"Why there war ould Paddy Rafferty, who war in the Cavan Militia in the Rabellion—av he didn't kill scores of the French at Ballinamuck, he's the biggest liar I ever heard; but he's dead now, yer honour."

"Supposing that the death of Captain Ussher had happened a fortnight before—that the prisoner had killed him a fortnight before the day on which he did kill him, would you not have been surprised then?"

"Why I don't know that a fortnight makes much difference."

"Answer my question. In such a case as that, would you not have felt more surprise than you did when the affair did occur?"

"Why, yer honour, I can't answer that—becase, you see, it didn't happen then, and I couldn't exactly be saying what my feelings might be."

"At any rate, you were not surprised?"

"Oh yes, I war surprised; in course it war a surprise to me when I kicked the dead body; but when I come to think over all about the Captain, I warn't that much surprised."

"After what had taken place at Mrs. Mehan's, you did not expect Captain Ussher would be very long lived?"

"Faix, he lived longer than I expected—seeing the way he war going on through the counthry."

"Do you remember telling me some time ago, speaking of Captain Ussher's death, that the thing had been talked over?"

"I b'lieve I said as much."

"What did you mean by that?"

"Why just that the job had been talked about."

"What job?"

"Why this job."

"What job? Tell the jury what job."

"Faix, they all know well enough by this time," and the witness looked up to the jury, "—or else they oughtn't to be there, any way."

"Tell them what job you mean—never mind what they know."

"'Deed thin, you're bothering me so entirely with yer jobs, I don't rightly know myself which I'm maning."

"Think a little then, for you must tell them; you said the job had been talked over; what was it that had been talked over?"

The witness gave a stolid look at the counsel, but answered nothing.

"Come," continued Mr. Allewinde, "what was the job that had been talked over?"

"Bad manners to the likes of me; but I war niver cute, and now I'm bothered intirely."

"You mean to tell the jury then that you don't know what you meant when you said the thing had been talked over; do you?"

"Why, I s'pose it was this thing about Captain Ussher. Weren't we talking of that then?"

"That's for you to say. Was it Captain Ussher's death that had been talked over?"

"Witness, don't answer that question," said Mr. O'Malley. "I'm sure my learned friend will not press it; it's very seldom he makes such a slip as that."

Mr. Allewinde had asked a leading, and therefore an unallowable question.

"Why the witness had just said that he supposed it was this thing about Captain Ussher," said Mr. Allewinde.

"I'll say no more about it," continued Mr. O'Malley, "feeling perfectly certain that you will not press the question."

"Well," said Mr. Allewinde to the witness, "tell the jury at once what was the thing that had been talked over."

"Why, yer honour knows well enough. Shure weren't you saying it yourself, only the gentleman here wouldn't let you."

"Well, now do you say it."

"Say what?"

"Say what was the thing that had been talked over."

"Talked over when, yer honour?"

"You told the jury some time since that the prisoner owned to you in the avenue that he had killed Captain Ussher, did you not?"

"Faix, I did—and it was thrue for me—he made no bones about it at all."

"And you then added that the thing had been talked over; what thing was it that had been talked over?"

"Ah, that's what you're wanting, is it? 'Deed thin I'm axing yer pardon for keeping yer honours all this time in suspinse. Faix thin, Captain Ussher war the thing what war talked over; and divil a lie in it, for he war talked over ofthen enough."

"Captain Ussher had been talked over in such a manner as to prevent your feeling much surprise, when you found that the prisoner had killed him, isn't that it?"

"Jist so—faix, I'd have no difficulty in discoursing wid yer honour, av the other gentleman wouldn't put in his say."

"You'll find by and by he'll have a great deal more to say."

"In course; and no objection on arth on my part so long as it's one at a time."

"Now I think I have only two more questions to ask you, if you will give me direct answers to them."

"Twenty, av you plaze, yer honour."

"You have said that the tenants of the prisoner had sworn together to put Captain Ussher under the sod, and also that the prisoner had agreed to join the tenants in ridding the country of him; was the former phrase, that of putting the Captain under the sod, used in the prisoner's presence on the evening of the wedding?"

"There war a lot of thim phrases used—ridding the counthry—sodding him—and all thim sort of disagreeable sayings; but I can't swear to any one exactly at Mrs. Mehan's—thim's the sort of words."

"Very well. Now I think you told us that when the prisoner desired you to take the dead body to the police at Carrick, he told you he was going to some place: where did he say he was going to?"

"To Aughacashel."

"Where's Aughacashel?"

"It's a mountain behind Drumshambo."

"And did he tell you why he was going to Aughacashel?"

"That he mightn't be tuk, I s'pose."

"I don't want your supposition. Did the prisoner tell you why he was going to Aughacashel?"

"There war some of the tinants there, I b'lieve, and he thought he'd be safe may be."

"Did the prisoner tell you that he was going to Aughacashel because he thought he'd be safe there?"

"I'll tell you how it war thin. We were jist talking together about what he'd betther be doing, which was nathural, and he with the dead body there, he'd been jist afther killing. Wid that, says he, 'Pat,' says he, 'where's the stills mostly at work now?' 'Faith,' says I, 'I don't exactly be knowing;' for, yer honour, I niver turned a penny that way myself—'but,' says I, 'sich a one'll tell you,' and I mintioned one of the tinants; 'and where's he?' said the masther; 'why I heard tell,' says I, 'that he's in Aughacashel, but av you'll go down to Drumleesh, you'll find out,' and wid that he went down the road to Drumleesh, and I druv the body off to Carrick."

"That'll do," said Mr. Allewinde. "I've done with this witness, my lord."



CHAPTER XXX.

THE PRISONER'S DEFENCE.

Mr. O'Malley then rose, but before he began to cross-examine the witness, he addressed the judge.

"There's a witness in court, my lord, whom I shall have to examine by and by on the defence, and I must request that he may be directed to absent himself during my examination of the witness now in the chair. It is material that he should not hear the answers which this witness may give, I mean Mr. Hyacinth Keegan, my lord, who is sitting beneath me."

Keegan was sitting on the bench immediately under that of the barrister, among the attorneys employed in court. When he heard Mr. O'Malley's request to the judge, he rose up on his one leg, and the judge having ordered him to leave the court, he hobbled out with the assistance of his crutch.

"Your name is Pat Brady, I think," commenced Mr. O'Malley.

Pat did not reply.

"Why don't you answer my question, sir?" said the counsellor angrily.

"Why I towld what my name war afore. Thim gintlemen up there knows it well enough, and yourself knows it; why'd I be saying it agin?"

"Well, my friend, I tell you to begin with, I shall ask you many questions you'll find considerably more difficult to answer than that, and you'd better make up your mind to answer them; for I mean to get an answer to the questions I shall ask, and you'll sit in that chair till you do answer them, unless you're moved from it into gaol."

"Fire away, sir; I'm very well where I am, and I'm thinking I can howld out agin the hunger longer nor yer honer."

"Your name is Pat Brady?"

"It is."

"Whose servant are you?"

"Whose servant?"

"Don't you understand what I say? whose servant are you?"

"Faix thin, I don't call myself a servant at all."

"Who's your master then?"

"Mr. Macdermot here was my masther afore this affair."

"I didn't ask who was your master; who is your master now?"

"Why, Mr. Keegan."

"Mr. Hyacinth Keegan, that's just gone out of court; he's your master, eh?"

"He is."

"And a very good master—isn't he?"

"Betther, maybe, than yer honour'd be, and yet perhaps none of the best."

"Answer my questions, sir; isn't he a good master?"

"Faix, he is so."

"How long have you been in his employment?"

"How long!"

"Yes, how long?"

"Why, I can't jist say how long."

"Have you been a year?"

"No."

"Six months?"

"No."

"Will you swear that you never were in Mr. Keegan's pay before six months ago?"

"I will."

"You never received any money from Mr. Keegan before six months ago?"

"I did not say that."

"Why, if you received his money weren't you in his pay?"

"No; maybe he gave me a Christmas-box or so; he's very good to a poor boy like me in that way, is Mr. Keegan."

"In whose employment were you six months ago?"

"In Mr. Macdermot's; yourself knows that well enough."

"And Mr. Macdermot and Mr. Keegan were great friends at that time; weren't they?"

"Faix they were not; I never seed much frindship betwixt 'em."

"Did you ever see any enmity between them—any quarrelling—or what you very properly call bad blood?"

"Indeed I did then."

"I b'lieve Mr. Macdermot—that's the prisoner—had great trust in you; hadn't he?"

"I believe he had."

"You knew all the affairs about the estate?"

"I b'lieve I did."

"He told you all his troubles—all his money difficulties, didn't he?"

"One way or other, I b'lieve I knew the most on 'em."

"Particularly as to the money due on his father's property, which Keegan had to receive; he used to talk to you confidentially about those things?"

"Well, and av he did?"

"But he did so; didn't he?"

"Faix, but I don't know what you're afther; I b'lieve he towld me all about everything."

"I believe he did indeed; and now I'll tell you what I'm after. Mr. Macdermot, unfortunately believing you to be an honest man, told you all his plans and secrets, which you, in consideration of certain pay, which you call Christmas-boxes, sold to the man whom you knew to be your master's enemy; isn't that the fact now?"

"No, it a'nt."

"Ah, but I say it is the fact; and now do you suppose any jury will believe a word you've said, after having shown yourself guilty of such treachery as that. Do you expect the jury to believe you?"

"'Deed I do—every word; Lord bless you, they knows me."

"Now, then, tell me. Can you recall any conversation between yourself and Mr. Keegan since the death of Captain Ussher, relative to this trial?"

"I can."

"More than one, perhaps?"

"Oh, lor yes; twenty maybe."

"Will you tell us any particulars you may remember of the last?"