“Oh, wretched fate!” exclaimed her distracted father, “I am—­I am a murderer, and faithful Connor was right—­Mrs. Brown—­Mrs. Hastings—­hear me, both—­I was warned of this, but I would not listen either to reason or remonstrance, and now I am punished, as Connor predicted.  Great heaven, what a fate both for her and me—­for her the innocent, and for me the guilty!”

It is unnecessary to dwell upon the father’s misery and distraction; but, from all our readers have learned of his extraordinary tenderness and affection for that good and lovely daughter, they may judge of what he suffered.  He immediately ordered his carriage, and had barely time to hear that Reilly had been sentenced to transportation for seven years.  His daughter was quite meek and tractable; she spoke not, nor could any ingenuity on their part extract the slightest reply from her.  Neither did she shed a single tear, but the vacant light of her eyes had stamped a fatuitous expression on her features that was melancholy and heartbreaking beyond all power of language to describe.

No other person had seen her since the bereavement of her reason, except the officer who kept guard on the lobby, and who, in the hurry and distraction of the moment, had been dispatched by Mrs. Brown for a glass of cold water.  Her father’s ravings, however, in the man’s presence, added to his own observation, and the distress of her female friends were quite sufficient to satisfy him of the nature of her complaint, and in less than half an hour it was through the whole court-house, and the town besides, that the Cooleen Bawn had gone mad on hearing the sentence that was passed upon her lover.  Her two friends accompanied her home, and remained with her for the night.

Such was the melancholy conclusion of the trial of Willy Reilly; but even taking it at its worst, it involved a very different fate from that of his vindictive rival, Whitecraft.  It appeared that that worthy gentleman and the Red Rapparee had been sentenced to die on the same day, and at the same hour.  It is true, Whitecraft was aware that a deputation had gone post-haste to Dublin Castle to solicit his pardon, or at least some lenient commutation of punishment.  Still, it was feared that, owing to the dreadful state of the roads, and the slow mode of travelling at that period, there was a probability that the pardon might not arrive in time to be available; and indeed there was every reason to apprehend as much.  The day appointed for the execution of the Red Rapparee and him arrived—­nay, the very hour had come; but still there was hope, among his friends.  The sheriff, a firm, but fair and reasonable man, waited beyond the time named by the judge for his execution.  At length he felt the necessity of discharging his duty; for, although more than an hour beyond the appointed period had now elapsed, yet this delay proceeded from no personal regard he entertained for the felon, but from respect for many of those who had interested themselves in his fate.