After an unusual delay the sheriff felt himself called upon to order both the Rapparee and the baronet for execution.  In waiting so long for a pardon, he felt that he had transgressed his duty, and he accordingly ordered them out for the last ceremony.  The hardened Rapparee died sullen and silent; the only regret he expressed being that he could not live to see his old friend turned off before him.

“Troth,” replied the hangman, “only that the sheriff has ordhered me to hang you first as bein’ the betther man, I would give you that same satisfaction; but if you’re not in a very great hurry to the warm corner you’re goin’ to, and if you will just take your time for a few minutes, I’ll engage to say you will soon have company.  God speed you, any way,” he exclaimed as he turned him off; “only take your time, and wait for your neighbors.  Now, Sir Robert,” said he, “turn about, they say, is fair play—­it’s your turn now; but you look unbecomin’ upon it.  Hould up your head, man, and don’t be cast down.  You’ll have company where you’re goin’; for the Red Rapparee tould me to tell you that he’d wait for you.  Hallo!—­what’s that?” he exclaimed as he cast his eye to the distance and discovered a horseman riding for life, with a white handkerchief, or flag of some kind, floating in the breeze.  The elevated position in which the executioner was placed enabled him to see the signal before it could be perceived by the crowd.  “Come, Sir Robert,” said he, “stand where I’ll place you—­there’s no use in asking you to hould up your head, for you’re not able; but listen.  You hanged my brother that you knew to be innocent; and now I hang you that I know to be guilty.  Yes, I hang you, with the white flag of the Lord Lieutenant’s pardon for you wavin’ in the distance; and listen again, remember Willy Reilly;” and with these words he launched him into eternity.

The uproar among his friends was immense, as was the cheering from the general crowd, at the just fate of this bad man.  The former rushed to the gallows, in order to cut him down, with a hope that life might still be in him, a process which the sheriff, after perusing his pardon, permitted them to carry into effect.  The body was accordingly taken into the prison, and a surgeon procured to examine it; but altogether in vain; his hour had gone by, life was extinct, and all the honor they could now pay Sir Robert Whitecraft was to give him a pompous funeral, and declare him a martyr to Popery both of which they did.

On the day previous to Reilly’s departure his humble friend and namesake, Fergus, at the earnest solicitation of Reilly himself, was permitted to pay him a last melancholy visit.  After his sentence, as well as before it, every attention had been paid to him by O’Shaughnessy, the jailer, who, although an avowed Protestant, and a brand plucked from the burning, was, nevertheless, a lurking Catholic at heart, and felt a corresponding sympathy with his prisoner.