“Now,” said the leader, “it’s my duty to tell you that there’s a man to be done for tonight; and you must all know his crime.  He was warned by us no less than four times not to pay tithe, and not only that, but he refused to be sworn out to do so, and wounded one of the boys that wor sent by me one night to swear him.  He has set us at defiance by publicly payin’ his tithes to a man that we’ll take care of some o’ these nights.  He’s now doomed, an’ was tried on the last night of our meetin’.  This night he dies.  Them that has his life in their hands knows who he is an’ where they’ll find him.  Once and for all then this night he dies.  Now, boys, such of you as have nothing to do go home, and such of you as have your work before you do it like men, and don’t draw down destruction on yourselves by neglectin’ it.  You know your fate if you flinch.—­I have done.”

Those who were not on duty, to use a military phrase, returned across the moors by the way they came, and consequently reached the bridle road we have spoken of, together.  Such, however, as were set apart for the outrages and crimes of the night, remained behind, in order that the peculiar destination of their atrocities might be known only to the individuals who were appointed to perpetrate them.

On their return, our unknown friend, who had rendered such an essential service to M’Carthy, thus addressed his companion—­that is to say, the man who happened to be next him,—­

“Well, neighbor, what do you think of this night’s work?”

“Why, that everything’s right, of coorse,” replied the other; “any man that strives to keep the Millstone about our necks desarves his fate; at the same time,” he added, dropping his voice still lower, “I’d as soon not be the man to do the deed, neighbor.”

“Well, I can’t say,” returned our friend, “but I’m a trifle of your way of thinkin’.”

“There’s one thing troubles me,” added his companion, an’ it’s this—­there was a young lad wid us to-night from my neighborhood, he was near the last of us as we went along the road on our way to the mountains; I seen him whisperin’ to some one a good deal as we came out—­now, I know there’s not on airth a kinder-hearted or more affectionate boy than he is; he hasn’t a heart to hurt a fly, and is loved and respected by every one in the neighborhood.  Very well!  God of glory! isn’t it too bad, that this one, handsome, lovin’, and affectionate boy, the only child of his father and mother,—­fareer gair (* Bitter misfortune.)—­my friend, whoever you are, isn’t it too bad, that that boy, innocent and harmless as a child, will go home to his lovin’ parents a murdherer this night?”

“What makes you say so?” asked our unknown friend.

“Why,” replied the man, “he stood beside me in the ranks, and has been sent to murdher the man that was doomed.”

To this our friend judiciously avoided making any reply, the fact being that several individuals in high trust among these Whiteboys were occasionally employed to sound suspected persons, in order to test their sincerity.  For about half a minute he spoke not; but at length he said, with something like sternness—­