"We are at the Grey Stone, your honor," replied the man.

"Oh, very well; pull up a moment," he added. "My dear Miss Sullivan, we are at the Grey Stone now," said he, addressing her.

She moaned again, and started. "Whist," said she; "I don't hear his voice."

At this moment a man approached the driver, and desired him to let him know that a person wished to speak with him.

The female in the carriage no sooner heard the voice, even although the words were uttered in whispers, than she called out--

"Father, come to me--help me home--I'm dyin'! You've been desaved, Mr.

Henderson," she added. "It wasn't Mave Sullivan, but the Prophet's own daughter, you took away. Blessed be G.o.d, I've saved her that disgrace.

Father, help me home. I won't be long a throuble to you now."

"What's this!" exclaimed Henderson. "Are you not Miss Sullivan?"

"Am I in a dhrame?" said the Prophet, approaching the door of the chaise. "Surely--now--what is it? It's my daughter's voice! Is that Sarah that I left in her bed of typhus faver this night? Or, am I in a dhrame still, I say? Sarah, is it you? Spake."

"It is me, father; help me home. It will be your last throuble with me, I think--at laste, I hope so--oh, I hope so!"

"Who talks about typhus fever?" asked Henderson, starting out of the chaise with alarm. "What means this? Explain yourself."

"I can no more explain it," replied the Prophet, "than you can. I left my daughter lyin' in bed of typhus faver, not more than three or four hours ago; an' if I'm to believe my ears, I find her in the carriage with you now!"

"I'm here," she replied; "help me out."

"Oh, I see it all now," observed Henderson, in a fit of pa.s.sion, aggravated by the bitterness of his disappointment--"I see your trick; an' so, you old scoundrel, you thought to impose your termagant daughter upon me instead of Miss Sullivan, and she reeking with typhus fever, too, by your own account. For this piece of villany I shall settle with you, however, never fear. Typhus fever! Good G.o.d!--and I so dreadfully afraid of it all along, that I couldn't bear to look near a house in which it was, nor approach any person even recovering out of it. Driver, you may leave the girl at home. As for me, I shall not enter your chaise again, contaminated, as it probably is, with that dreadful complaint, that is carrying off half the country. Call to the Grange in the morning, an' you shall be paid. Good-night, you prophetical old impostor. I shall mark you for this piece of villany; you may rest a.s.sured of that. A pretty trudge I shall have to the Grange, such a vile and tempestuous night; but you shall suffer for it, I say again."

Donnel Dhu was not merely disappointed at finding Sarah in such a situation; he was literally stupefied with amazement, and could scarcely believe the circ.u.mstances to be real. It had been agreed between him and Henderson, that should the latter succeed in fetching Mave Sullivan as far as the Grey Stone, he (the Prophet) should be considered to have fulfilled the conditions of the compact entered into between them, and the wages of his iniquity were to have been paid to him on that spot. It is unnecessary to say, therefore, that his disappointment and indignation were fully equal to those of Henderson himself.

"Where am I to go now?" asked the driver.

"To h.e.l.l!" replied the Prophet, "an you may bring your fare with you."

"You must take the reins yourself, then," replied the man, "for I don't know the way."

"Drive across the river, here then," continued the other, "and up the little road to the cottage on the right; yes, to the right--till we get that--that--I can't find words to name her--in the house."

A few minutes brought them to the door, and poor Sarah found herself once more in her own cabin, but in such a state as neutralized most of her father's resentment. When the driver had gone, Donnel came in again, and was about to wreak upon her one of those fits of impetuous fury, in which, it was true, he seldom indulged, but which, when wrought to a high state of pa.s.sion, were indeed frightful.

"Now," he began, "in the name of all that's"--he paused, however, for on looking closely at her, there appeared something in her aspect so utterly subversive of resentment, that he felt himself disarmed at once.

Her face was as pale as his own, but the expression of it was so chaste, so mournful, and yet so beautiful, that his tongue refused its office.

"Sarah," said he, "what is the matter with, you?--account for all this--I don't understand it."

She rose with great difficulty, and, tottering over towards him, laid her head upon his bosom, and looking up with a smile of melancholy tenderness into his face, burst into tears.

"Father," said she, "it is not worth your while to be angry with Sarah now. I heard words from your lips this night that would make me forgive you a thousand crimes. I heard you say that you loved me--loved me better than anything else in this world. I'm glad I know it, for that will be all the consolation I will have on my bed of death--an' there it is, father," she said, pointing to that which she always occupied; "help me over to it now, for I feel that I will never rise from it more."

Her father spoke not, but a.s.sisted her to the bed from which the old nurse, who had fallen asleep in it, now rose. He then went into the open air for a few minutes, but soon returned, and going over to the bedside where she lay, he looked upon her long and earnestly.

"Father," said she, "I only did my duty this night. I knew, indeed, I would never recover it--but then she risked her life for me, an' why shouldn't I do as much for her?"

The Prophet still looked upon her, but spoke not a word; his lips were closely compressed, his hands tightly clasped, and his piercing eyes almost immovable. Minute after minute thus pa.s.sed, until nearly half an hour had elapsed, and Sarah dreadfully exhausted by what she had undergone, found her eyes beginning to close in an unsettled and feverish slumber. At length he said, in a tone of voice which breathed of tenderness itself--

"Sleep, dear Sarah--dear Sarah, sleep."

She apparently was asleep, but not so as to be altogether unconscious of his words, for, in spite of illness and fatigue, a sweet and serene smile stole gently over her pale face, rested on it for a little, and again, gradually, and with a mournful placidity died away. Her father sighed deeply, and turning to the bedside, said--

"It is useless to ask her anything this night, Biddy. Can you tell me what became of her, or how she got out?"

"Oh, the sorra word," replied the old woman; "I'm sure such a start was never taken out o' mortal as I got when I came here, and found her gone.

I searched all the neighborhood, but no use--divil a sowl seen her--so afther trottin' here an' there, an' up and down, I came in not able to mark the ground, and laid myself down on the bed, where I fell asleep till you came back; but where, in the name of all that's wonderful, was she?"

Donnel sat down in silence, and the crone saw that he was in no mood for answering questions, or entering into conversation; she accordingly clapped herself on her hunkers, and commenced sucking her dudeen, without at all seeming to expect a reply.

We, however, shall avail ourselves of the historian's privilege, in order to acquaint our readers, very briefly, with that, of which we presume, so far as Sarah is concerned, they can scarcely plead ignorance. Having heard the conversation between Rody Duncan and her father, which satisfied her that the plot for taking away Mave Sullivan was to be executed that very night, Sarah, with her usual energy and disregard for herself, resolved to make an effort to save her generous rival, for we must here acquaint our readers, that during the progress of her convalescence, she had been able to bring to her recollection the presence of Mave Sullivan in the shed on more than one occasion. She did not, however, depend upon her own memory or impressions for this, but made inquiries from her nurse, who, in common with the whole neighborhood, had heard of Mave's humanity and attention towards her, to which it was well known, she owed her life. The generous girl, therefore, filled with remorse at having, for one moment, contemplated any act of injury towards Mave, now determined to save her from the impending danger, or lose her life in the attempt. How she won her way in such an enfeebled state of health, and on such a night, cannot now be known; it is sufficient here to say, that she arrived only a few minutes before the attack was made upon Sullivan's house, and just in time to have Mave and her cousin each concealed under a bed. Knowing, however, that a strict search would have rendered light of some kind necessary, and enable the ruffians to discover Mave besides, she, at once, threw herself in their way, under a feigned attempt to escape, and the next moment three or four voices exclaimed, exultingly, "we have her--the cropped head--here she is--all's right--come away; you darlin', you'll be a happy girl before this day week!"

"I hope so," she replied; "oh, I hope so--bring me away!"

The Prophet's own adventure was not less disastrous. Rody Duncan's sudden withdrawal from the robbery surprised him very much. On seriously and closely reconsidering the circ.u.mstances, it looked suspicious, and ere a single hour had pa.s.sed, Donnel felt and impression that, on that business at least, Rody had betrayed him. Acting upon this conviction.--for it amounted to that--he soon satisfied himself that the house was secured against, the possibility of any successful attack upon it. This he discovered in the village of Grange, when, on inquiring, he found that most of the young men were gone to sit up all night in the "big house". So much being known, any additional information to Donnel was unnecessary. He accordingly relinquished the enterprise; and remembering the engagement with young Henderson at the Grey Stone, met him there, to receive the wages of his iniquity; but with what success, the reader is already acquainted.

This double failure of his projects, threw the mind of the Prophet into a train of deep and painful reflection. He began to reflect that his views of life and society might not, after all, be either the safest or the best. He looked back over his own past life, and forward to the future, and he felt as if the shadow of some approaching evil was over him. He then thought of his daughter, and pictured to himself what she might have been, had he discharged, as he ought to have done, the duties of a Christian parent towards her. This, and other recollections, pressed upon Mm, and his heart was once or twice upon the point of falling back into the fresh impulses of its early humanity, when the trial of tomorrow threw him once more into a gloom, that settled him down into a resentful but unsatisfactory determination to discharge the duty he had imposed upon himself.

CHAPTER x.x.xI. -- A Double Trial--Retributive Justice.

With beating and anxious hearts did the family of the Daltons rise upon the gloomy morning of the old man's trial. Deep concern prevented them from eating, or even feeling inclined to eat; but when about to sit down to their early and sorrowful repast, Mrs. Dalton, looking around her, asked--

"Where is poor Tom from us this morning?"

"He went out last night," replied one of his sisters, "but didn't come back since."

"That poor boy," said his mother, "won't be long with us; he's gone every way--health and strength, and reason. He has no appet.i.te--and a child has more strength. After this day he must be kept in the house, if possible, or looked to when he goes out; but indeed I fear that in a day or two he will not be able to go anywhere. Poor affectionate boy!

he never recovered the death of that unhappy girl, nor ever will; an' it would be well for himself that he was removed from this world, in which, indeed, he's now not fit to live."

Little time was lost in the despatch of their brief meal, and they set out, with the exception of Mary, to be present at the trail of their aged father.

The court was crowded to excess, as was but natural, for the case had excited a very deep interest throughout almost the whole country.

At length the judge was seated, and in a few minutes Cornelius Dalton was put to the bar, charged with the wilful murder of Bartholomew Sullivan, by striking him on the head with a walking-stick, in the corner of a field, near a place called the Grey Stone, &c, &c, situate and being in the barony of, &c, &c.

When the reverend looking old man stood up at the bar, we need scarcely say that all eyes were immediately turned on him with singular interest.

It was clear, however, that there was an admission of guilt in his very face, for, instead of appearing with the erect and independent att.i.tude of conscious innocence, he looked towards the judge and around the court with an expression of such remorse and sorrow, and his mild blue eye had in it a feeling so full of humility, resignation and contrition, that it was impossible to look on his aged figure and almost white hairs with indifference, or, we should rather say, without sympathy. Indeed, his case appeared to be one of those in which the stern and unrelenting decree of human law comes to demand its rights, long after the unhappy victim has washed away his crime by repentance, and made his peace with G.o.d, a position in connection with conventional offences that is too often overlooked in the administration of justice and the distribution of punishment.

It was not without considerable difficulty that they succeeded in prevailing on him to plead not guilty; which he did at length, but in a tone of voice that conveyed anything but a conviction of his innocence to the court, the jury, and those about him.