“An’ if you write to him, sir, just in a single line, to say that the affectionate ould friend never forgot him.”

“That, too, shall be done,” replied John; “you may rest assured of it.”

The Bodagh, whose notions in matters of delicacy and feeling were rough but honest, now rang the bell with an uncommon, nay, an angry degree of violence.

“Get up some spirits here, an’ don’t be asleep.  You must take a glass of whiskey before you go,” he said, addressing Nogher.

“Sir,” replied Nogher, “I’m in a hurry home, for I’m aff my day’s work.”

“By —–­, but you must,” rejoined the

Bodagh; “and what’s your day’s wages?”

“Ten pence.”

“There’s half-a-crown; an’ I tell you more, you must come an’ take a cot—­tack undher me, and you’ll find the change for the betther, never fear.”

In point of fact in was so concluded, and Nogher left the Bodagh’s house with a heart thankful to Providence that he had ever entered it.

The day of Flanagan’s trial, however, now approached, and our readers are fully aware of the many chances of escaping justice which the state of the country opened to him, notwithstanding his most atrocious villainy.  As some one, however, says in a play—­in that of Othello, we believe—­“God is above all,” so might Flanagan have said on this occasion.  The evidence of Biddy Nulty, some of the other servants, and the Bodagh, who identified some of the notes, was quite sufficient against him, with respect to the robbery.  Nor was any evidence adduced of more circumstantial weight than Kitty Lowry’s, who, on being satisfied of Flanagan’s designs against Una, and that she was consequently no more than his dupe, openly acknowledged the part she had taken in the occurrences of the night on which the outrages were committed.  This confession agreed so well with Bartle’s character for caution and skill in everything he undertook, that his object in persuading her to leave the hall door open was not only clear, but perfectly consistent with the other parts of his plan.  It was a capital crime; and when fame once more had proclaimed abroad that Bartle Flanagan was condemned to be hanged for robbing Bodagh Buie, they insisted still more strongly that the sentence was an undeniable instance of retributive justice.  Striking, indeed, was the difference between his deportment during the trial, and the manly fortitude of Connor O’Donovan, when standing under as heavy a charge at the same bar.  The moment he entered the dock, it was observed that his face expressed all the pusillanimous symptoms of the most unmanly terror.  His brows fell, or rather hung over his eyes, as if all their muscular power had been lost—­giving to his countenance not only the vague sullenness of irresolute ferocity, but also, as was legible in his dead small eye, the cold calculations of deep and cautious treachery; nor was his white, haggard cheek a less equivocal assurance