As he spoke, and paused from time to time, the tumult of the storm without, and the fury with which it swept against the roof, door, and windows of the house, made a terrible diapason to the sweet and affecting tone of feeling which pervaded the remarks of the dying boy.  His father, however, who felt an irrepressible dread of what was expected to take place, started at the close of the last words, and with a heart divided between the two terrors, stood in that stupefaction which is only the resting-place of misery, where it takes breath and strengthens itself for its greatest trials.  Ho stood with one hand as before, pressed upon his forehead, and pointed with the other to the door.  The wife, too, paused, for she could not doubt for a moment, that she heard sounds mingling with those of the storm which belonged not to it.  It was Christmas eve!

“Stop, Mary,” said he, the very current of his heart stilled—­its beating pulses frozen, as it were, by the terrible apprehension—­“stop, Mary; you can open the door, but in such a morning as this you couldn’t shut it, and the wind and drift would come in and fill the house, and be the death of our boy.  No, I must open the door myself, and it will require all my strength to shut it.”

“I hear it all, now,” said Torley, “the cries and the shouting, the screechings and the—­well, you need not be afeared; put poor Brian in with me, for I know there is no Irishman but will respect a death-bed, be it landlord, or agent, ay, or bailey.  Oh, no, father, the hand of God is upon us, and if they respect nothing else, they will surely respect that.  They won’t move me, mother, when they see me; for that would kill me—­that would be to murder a dying man.”

The father made no reply, but rushed towards the door, which he opened and closed after him with more ease than he had expected.  The storm, in fact, was subsiding; the small hard drift had ceased, and it was evident from the appearance of the sky that there was likely to be a change for the better.

It would, indeed, appear, as if the Divine Being actually restrained and checked the elements, on witnessing the cruel, heartless, and oppressive purposes of man.  But, what a scene presented itself to O’Regan, on going forth to witness the proceedings which were then about to take place on this woeful day!

Entering the northern end of this wild collection of sheelings was seen a posse of bailiffs, drivers, constables, keepers, and all that hard-hearted class of ruffians that constitute the staff of a land agent upon occasions similar to this.  Immediately behind these followed a body of Orange yeomanry, dressed in regimentals, and with fire-arms—­each man carrying thirty rounds of ball cartridge.  We say Orange yeomen advisedly, because, at the period we speak of, Roman Catholics were not admitted into the yeomanry, unless, perhaps, one in a corps; and even out of ten corps, perhaps, you might not find the ten exceptions.  When we add to this the fact,