In the meantime, the state of poor Alice Goodwin’s health was deplorable.  The dreadful image of Harry Woodward, or, rather, the frightful power of his Satanic spirit, fastened upon her morbid and diseased imagination with such force, that no effort of her reason could shake it off.  That dreadful eye was perpetually upon her and before her, both asleep and awake, and, lest she might have any one point on which to rest for comfort, the idea of Charles Lindsay attachment to Grace Davoren would come over her, only to supersede one misery by introducing another.  In this wretched state she was when the calamitous circumstances, which we are about to relate, took place.

Barney Casey was a good deal engaged that evening, for indeed he was a general servant in his master’s family, and was expected to put a hand to, and superintend, everything.  He was, therefore, out of the way for a time, having gone to Rathfillan on a message for his mistress, whom he cursed in his heart for having sent him.  He lost little time, however, in discharging it, and was just on his return when he saw Harry Woodward entering the old boreen we have described; and, as the night was rather dark, he resolved to ascertain—­although he truly suspected—­the object of this nocturnal adventure.  He accordingly dogged him at a safe distance, and, in accordance with his suspicions, he found that Woodward directed his steps to the clump of alders which he had, on their return that day, pointed out to his brother.  Here he (Barney) ensconced himself in a close thicket, in order to watch the event.  Woodward had not been many minutes there when Grace Davoren joined him.  She seemed startled, and surprised, and disappointed, as Casey could perceive by her manner, or rather by the tones of her voice; but, whatever the cause of her disappointment may have been, there was little time left for either remonstrances or explanation on the part of her lover.  Whilst addressing her, a young and powerful man bounded forward, and, brandishing a long dagger—­the dreaded middogue—­plunged it into his body, and her companion fell with a groan.  The act was rapid as lightning, and the moment the work of blood and vengeance had been accomplished, the young fellow bounded away again with the same speed observable in the rapidity of his approach.  Grace’s screams and shrieks were loud and fearful.

“Murdherin’ villain of hell,” she shouted after Shawn—­for it was he—­“you have killed the wrong man—­you have murdered the innocent This is his brother.”

Barney was at her side in a moment.

“Heavenly Father!” he exclaimed, shocked and astounded by her words, “what means this?  Is it Mr. Charles?”

“O, yes,” she replied, not conscious that in the alarm and terror of the moment she had betrayed herself, or rather her paramour—­“innocent Mr. Charles I’m afeard is murdhered by that revengeful villain; and now, Barney, what is to be done, and how will we get assistance to bring him home?  But, cheerna above! what will become of me!”