“What do you mean, Sarah?” said her mistress, much alarmed by such a startling-preface; “explain yourself.  I do not understand, you.”

“But you soon will, miss.  Shawn-na-Middogue found Mr. Charles Lindsay and Grace Davoren together last night, and has stabbed him to death; life’s only in him; and that’s the gentleman that pretended to love you.  Devil’s cure to the villain!”

She paused.  The expression of her mistress’s face was awful.  A pallor more frightful than that of death, because it was associated with life, overspread her countenance.  Her eyes became dim and dull; her features in a moment were collapsed, and resembled those of some individual struck by paralysis—­they were altogether without meaning.  She clasped and unclasped her hands, like one under the influence of strong hysterical agony; she laid herself back in bed, where she had been sitting up expecting her coffee, her eyes closed, for she had not physical strength even to keep them open, and with considerable difficulty she said, in a low and scarcely audible voice,—­“My mother!”

Poor Sarah felt and saw the mischief she had done, and, with streaming eyes and loud sobbings, lost not a moment in summoning Mrs. Goodwin.  In truth she feared that her mistress lay dying before her, and was immediately tortured with the remorseful impression that the thoughtless and indiscreet communication she had made was the cause of her death.  It is unnecessary to describe the terror and alarm of her mother, nor of her father, when he saw her lying as it were between life and dissolution.  The physician was immediately sent for, but, notwithstanding all his remedies, until the end of the second day, there appeared no change in her.  Towards the close of that day an improvement was perceptible; she was able to speak and take some nourishment, but it was observed that she never once made the slightest allusion to the disaster which had befallen Charles Lindsay.  She sank into a habitual silence, and, unless when forced to ask for some of those usual attentions which her illness required, she never ventured to indulge in conversation on any subject whatsoever.  One thing, however, struck Sarah Sullivan, which was, that in all her startings, both asleep and awake, and in all her unconscious ejaculations, that which appeared to press upon her most was the unceasing horror of the Evil Eye.  The name of Charles Lindsay never escaped her, even in the feverish agitation of her dreams, nor in those exclamations of terror and alarm which she uttered.

“O, save me!—­save me from his eye—­he is killing me!  Yes, Woodward is a devil—­he is killing me—­save me—­save me!”

Well had the villain done his work; and how his web of iniquity was woven out we shall see.

On leaving Barney, that worthy gentleman sought his mother, and thus addressed her:—­

“Mother,” said he, apparently much moved, “this is a melancholy, and I trust in heaven it may not turn out a fatal, business.  I’m afraid poor Charles’s case is hopeless.”