“Whisht,” said Raymond, “let us see—­who have we here?  Ah,” said he, stooping down and feeling the chill of death upon her features, “it is Mary O’Regan, and she’s dead—­dead!”

“Dead,” exclaimed Phil, starting, “curse you, Rimon, let us be off at full speed, I say—­Gad, I’m in a nice pickle; and these pistols are of no use against any confounded ghost.”

On hearing that Phil carried pistols, O’Regan started, and had it been daylight, a fierce but exulting fire might have been seen to kindle in his eyes.

“What can have brought them here?” asked Father Roche; “I cannot understand their visit at such an hour to such a place as this.”

“A few minutes, sir, will make all clear, maybe.”

“And what brought poor Mary here to die, do you know?” inquired Raymond; “no you don’t,” he replied, “but I will tell you—­she came to die near poor White-head that she loved so much, and near Torley, and near poor Hugh himself, that the bloodhounds—­”

“Damn my honor, Rimon, if I can stand this any longer—­I’m off.”

“Hould!” said Raymond, with a shout whose echoes rang through the ruins; “you musn’t go till you hear me out,” and on uttering the words he gripped him by the arm, and led him over to the dead body.

“I’m goin’ to tell you myself,” proceeded Raymond; “she came to die here that she might be near them—­do you onderstand?” and he involuntarily pressed the arm he still held with his huge iron finger, until Phil told him he could not bear the pain.  “She came to die here that she mightn’t have far to go to them; for you don’t know, maybe, that it’s on their grave she is now lyin’:—­ha, ha; that’s one.  DID YOU EVER SEE A MURDERED WOMAN, CAPTAIN PHIL?”

“Never,” replied Phil, who stood passive in his grip.

“Ha, ha, ha,” he chuckled, “that’s not a good one.  Well, but, did you ever see a murdherer?”

“Some o’ the blood-hounds pinked fellows, I believe, but then they were only rebels and Pap-papishes.”

“Ha, ha,” still chuckled Raymond, as he confronted himself by degrees with Phil, “I swore it for poor White-head’s sake—­and for Mary M’Loughlin’s sake—­an’ for twenty sakes besides.”

“God!  Rimon, what do you mean?” said Phil, “there’s a dreadful look in your eyes Rimon, you are an excellent fellow; but tell me what you mean?”

“To show you a murdherer,” he replied; “and now I have one by the throat!”

As he spoke, he clutched him by the neck with a grasp that might strangle a tiger.  Then, as before in O’Regan’s sheeling, all the fury of the savage came upon him; his eyes blazed fearfully—­the white froth of passion, or rather of madness, appeared upon his lips, and his bowlings resembled the roaring of some beast of prey, while tearing up its quivering victim in the furious agonies of protracted hunger.  In a moment Phil was down, and truly the comparison of the beast of prey, and his struggling victim, is