“At present, certainly not,” replied Father Roche; “but he is breathing, and in about eight or ten minutes I hope he will probably recover.”

O’Regan went over, loosed his cravat, and stayed with him a few moments, after which he returned to Raymond and the priest, who were now in the ruin.

“I think he will be well enough shortly,” he observed, “but the truth is, Raymond, that he wasn’t worth your vengeance.  I will now go and fetch a few of the neighbors to assist in bringing my poor mother down from this lonely spot, that she may at least have a Christian roof over her.”

He accordingly departed, and Father Roche in a few minutes had Phil’s mind completely disentangled from the train of dark thoughts and affectionate impulses by which it had been for some time past alternately influenced.

“Raymond,” said the priest, “how could you think of committing such a frightful act as murder?”

“Ha, ha!” he replied, “sure i’twas when I thought of Mary M’Loughlin and poor White-head.”

“And how did it happen that, of all places in the world, you both came here?”

“Becaise White-head and the rest are here.  Sure he thought he was comin’ to a poor creature upon no good, and when he was drunk it was aisey to bring him anywhere—­ha, ha! that’s one too—­for I—­can manage him.”

“I thank the Almighty Father,” ejaculated the priest, “that I was able to prevent another murder this night—­for most assuredly, Raymond, you would have taken his life.”

“Ho, ho!” exclaimed the fool, with a little of his former ferocity, “sure it was for that I brought him here—­aye, aye, nothin’ else.”

“Well, while you live,” continued the old man, “never attempt to have the blood of a fellow creature on your soul.  I must go over and see how he feels—­I perceive he is able to sit up.  Young man,” he proceeded, addressing Phil, “I render God thanks that I have been instrumental in saving your life this night.”

“That’s more than I know,” replied this grateful youth; “I neither saw nor heard you, if you were.”

“It matters not,” replied the other, “let me assist you to rise.”

“I can rise myself now,” said he, getting up and staggering; “I’ll transport you and that d——­d savage, Rimon the hatter.  You are a po-popish priest, and you cannot be he-here at this time of night for much good.  Never fear but I’ll make you give an account of yourself, my old buck.”

The, reader is already aware that Phil had been far advanced in intoxication previously; but when we take into account the fearful throttling he received, and the immense rush of blood which must have taken place to the brain, we need not be surprised that he should relapse into the former symptoms of his intoxication, or, in other words, that its influence should be revived in him, in consequence of the treatment he received.

“I think,” continued Phil, “that I have got you and Rimon in my power now, and damn my hon-honor, may be we won’t give you a chase a-across the country that’ll put mettle into your heels; hip, hip, hurrah!  Ay, and may be we won’t give big M’—­M’Cabe, or M’Flail, a ran that will do him good too, hip, hip—­so good—­good-night till I see you-you just as you ought to be—­knitting your stock-cooking like Biddy O’Doherty; hip!”