“I hope you’ll stick to that, any how,” replied Denis; “for my part I’m sick and sore o’ you every day in the year.  Many another man would put salt wather between himself and yourself, sooner nor become a battin’-stone for you, as I have been.  Few would bear it, when they could mend themselves.”

“What’s that you say?” replied Anthony, suddenly laying down his glass, catching his brother by the collar, and looking him with a murderous scowl in the face.  “Is it thrachery you hint at?—­eh?  Sarpent, is it thrachery you mane?” and as he spoke, he compressed Denis’s neck between his powerful hands, until the other was black in the face.

Anne flew to her uncle’s assistance, and with much difficulty succeeded in rescuing him from the deadly gripe of her father, who exclaimed, as he loosed his hold, “You may thank the girl, or you’d not spake, nor dare to spake, about crossin’ the salt wather, or lavin’ me in a desateful way agin.  If I ever suspect that a thought of thrachery comes into your heart, I’ll do for you; and you may carry your story to the world I’ll send you to.”

“Father, dear, why are you so suspicious of my uncle?” said Anne; “sure he’s a long time livin’ with you, an’ goin’ step for step in all the danger you meet with.  If he had a mind to turn out a Judas agin you, he might a done it long agone; not to mintion the throuble it would bring on his own head seein’ he’s as deep in everything as you are.”

“If that’s all that’s throubling you,” replied Denis, trembling, “you may make yourself asy on the head of it; but well I know ’tisn’t that that’s on your mind; ’tis your own conscience; but sure it’s not fair nor rasonable for you to vent your evil thoughts on me!”

“Well, he won’t,” said Anne, “he’ll quit it; his mind’s throubled; an’, dear knows, it’s no wondher it should.  Och, I’d give the world wide that his conscience was lightened of the load that’s upon it!  My mother’s lameness is nothin’; but the child, poor thing!  An’ it was only widin three days of her lyin’-in.  Och, it was a cruel sthroke, father!  An’ when I seen its little innocent face, dead an’ me widout a brother, I thought my heart would break, thinkin’ upon who did it!” The tears fell in showers from her eyes, as she added, “Father, I don’t want to vex you; but I wish you to feel sorrow for that at laste.  Oh, if you’d bring the priest, an’ give up sich coorses, father dear, how happy we’d be, an’ how happy yourself ’ud be!”

Conscience for a moment started from her sleep, and uttered a cry of guilt in his spirit; his face became ghastly, and his eyes full of horror:  his lips quivered, and he’ was about to upbraid his daughter with more harshness than usual, when a low whistle, resembling that of a curlew, was heard at a chink of the door.  In a moment he gulped down another glass of spirits, and was on his feet:  “Go, Denis, an’ get the arms,” said he to his brother, “while I let them in.”