“Do you confiss the murdher?” said Darby.

“Murdher!” rejoined Frank:  “no!  I confess no murdher:  you villain, do you want to make me guilty;—­do you want to make me guilty, you deep villain?”

It seemed as if the current of his thoughts and feelings had taken a new direction, though it is probable that the excitement which appeared to be rising within him was only the courage of fear.

“You all wish to find me guilty,” he added:  “but I’ll show you that I’m not guilty.”

He immediately walked towards the corpse, and stooping down, touched the body with one hand, holding the gun in the other.  The interest of that moment was intense, and all eyes were strained towards the spot.  Behind the corpse, at each shoulder—­for the body lay against a small snow-wreath, in a recumbent position—­stood the father of the deceased and the father of the accused, each wound up by feelings of a directly opposite character to a pitch of dreadful excitement over them, in his fantastic dress and white beard, stood the tall mendicant, who held up his crucifix to Frank, with an awful menace upon his strongly marked countenance.  At a little distance to the left of the body stood other men who were assembled, having their torches held aloft in their hands, and their forms bent towards the corpse, their laces indicating expectation, dread, and horror The female relations of the deceased nearest his remains, their torches extended in the same direction, their visages exhibiting the passions of despair and grief in their wildest characters, but as if arrested by some supernatural object immediately before their eyes, that produced a new and more awful feeling than grief.  When the body was touched, Frank stood as if himself bound by a spell to the spot.  At length he turned his eyes to the mendicant, who stood silent and motionless, with the crucifix still extended in his hand.

“Are you satisfied now?” said he.

“That’s wanst,” said the pilgrim:  “you’re to touch it three times.”

Frank hesitated a moment, but immediately stooped again, and touched it twice in succession; but it remained still and unchanged as before!  His father broke the silence by a fervent ejaculation of thanksgiving to God for the vindication of his son’s character which he had just witnessed.

“Now!” exclaimed M’Kenna, in a loud, exulting tone, “you all see that I did not murdher him!”

“You did!” said a voice, which was immediately recognized to be that of the deceased.

M’Kenna shrieked aloud, and immediately fled with his gun towards the mountains, pursued by Reillaghan’s other son.  The crowd rushed in towards the body, whilst sorrow, affright, exultation, and wonder, marked the extraordinary scene which ensued.

“Queen o’ Heaven!” exclaimed old M’Kenna, “who could believe this only they hard it?”

“The murdher wouldn’t lie?” shrieked out Mrs. Reillaghan—­“the murdher wouldn’t lie!—­the blood o’ my darlin’ son spoke it!—­his blood spoke it; or God, or his angel, spoke it for him!”