a placid and serene expression; the light of immortal hope beamed upon it; and raising his eyes and his feeble arms to heaven, he uttered several ejaculations in a tone of voice too low to be heard.  At length he exclaimed aloud, “thanks to the Almighty that I did not commit this murder as I intended!  I found it done to my hand; but I don’t know who did it, as I am to meet my God!” The words were pronounced with difficulty; indeed they were scarcely uttered, when his arms fell lifelessly, as it were, by his side—­they were again suddenly drawn up, however, as if by a convulsive motion, and the priest saw that the agonies of death were about to commence; still, it was easy to perceive that the man was collected and rational.

It was now, however, that a scene took place, which could not, we imagine, be witnessed out of distracted and unhappy Ireland.  Raymond, who appeared to dread the approach of those whom he termed M’Clutchy’s blood-hounds, no sooner saw that the religious rites were concluded, than he ran out to reconnoitre.  In a moment, however, he returned a picture of terror, and dragging the woman to the door, pointed to a declivity below the house, exclaiming—­

[Illustration:  PAGE 186—­ See, Mary, see—­they’re gallopin]

“See, Mary, see—­they’re gallopin’.”  The dying man seemed conscious of what was said, for the groan he gave was wild and startling; his wife dropped on her knees at the door, where she could watch her husband and those who approached, and clasping her hands, exclaimed, “To your mercy, O Lord of heaven, to your mercy take him, before he falls into their hands, that will show him none!” She then bestowed upon him a look full of an impatient agony, which no language could describe; her eyes had already become wild and piercing—­her cheek flushed—­and her frame animated with a spirit that seemed to partake at once of terror, intense hatred, and something like frenzy.

“They are gallopin’! they are gallopin’!” she said, “and they will find life in him!” She then wrung her hands, but shed not a tear—­“speed, Hugh,” she said, “speed, speed, husband of my heart—­the arms of God are they not open for you, and why do you stay?” These sentiments, we should have informed our readers, were uttered, or rather chaunted in a recitative of sorrow, in Irish; Irish being the language in which the peasantry who happen to speak both it and English, always express themselves when more than usually excited.  “The sacred oil of salvation is upon you—­the sacrament of peace and forgiveness has lightened your soul—­the breath of mercy is the breath you’re breathin’—­the hope of Jesus is in your heart, and the intercession of his blessed mother, she that knew sorrow herself, is before you!  Then, light of my heart, the arms of God are they not open for you, and why do you stay here?”