They accordingly left the kitchen, passed through a tolerably large room, with two or three tables and several chairs in it, and entered another, which was also of a good size.  Here there was a bed, and in this M’Carthy was to rest—­if rest he could under a series of circumstances so extraordinary and exciting.

“Now,” said his guide, for such we must call him—­“observe this,” and he brought him to a low window which opened at the back of the house, “press that spot where you see the frame is sunk a little—­you can feel it, too, aisily enough in the dark—­very well, press that with your thumb and the windy will open by being pushed outwards.  If you feel or find that there’s any danger you can slip out of it; however, don’t be alarmed bekase you may hear voices.  There’s only one set that you may be afraid of—­they’re on the look-out for yourself—­but I don’t think it’s likely they’ll come here.  If they do, however, and that you hear them talkin’ about you, there’s your way to get off.  Come, now, I must try you again before I go.  What’s the hour?”

“Very near the right one.”

“Isn’t it come yet?”

“The hour is come but not the man.”

“When will he come?”

“He is within sight.”

“Now, good-bye, you may take a good sleep but don’t strip; lie just as you are—­that’s twiste your life has been saved this night.  In the mane time, you must give me back that overall shirt—­your danger I hope is past, but I may want it to-night yet; and stay, I was near spoilin’ all—­I forgot to give you the right grip—­here it is—­if any of them shakes hands wid you, mark this—­he presses the point of his thumb on the first joint of your fore-finger, and you press yours upon the middle joint of his little finger, this way—­you won’t forget that now?”

“Certainly not,” replied M’Carthy, “I will remember it accurately.”

“Very well,” he proceeded, “take my advice, get to Dublin without delay—­if you remain here you’re a dead man; you may never see me again, so God bless you.” and with these words he left him.

It is difficult to describe M’Carthy’s state of mind on finding himself alone.  The events of the night, fearful as they were, joined to his singular and to him unaccountable escape—­his present state of uncertainty and the contingent danger that awaited him—­the fact that parties were in search of him for the purpose of taking away his life, whilst he himself remained utterly unconscious of the cause which occasioned such, a bitter and unrelenting enmity against him—­all these reflections, coming together upon a mind already distracted and stupefied by want of rest, and excessive weariness—­succeeded in inducing first a wild sense of confusion—­then forgetfulness of his position, and ultimately sound and dreamless sleep.  How long that sleep had continued he could not even guess, but be that as it may, on awaking, he heard, medley of several voices in the next room, all engaged in an earnest conversation,