Anthony calmly folded one arm into his bosom, and his lip, quivered with the united influence of hatred and despair.

“Hould him,” shrieked a voice, which proceeded from his daughter, “hould my father or he’ll murdher him!  Oh! oh! merciful Heaven!”

Ere the words were uttered she had made an attempt to clasp the arms of her parent, whose motions she understood; but only in time to receive from the pistol which he had concealed in his breast, the bullet aimed at her uncle!  She tottered! and the blood spouted out of her neck upon her father’s brows, who hastily put up his hand and wiped it away, for it had actually blinded him.

The elder Meehan was a tall man, and as he stood, elevated nearly a head above the crowd, his grim brows red with his daughter’s blood—­which, in attempting to wipe away, he had deeply streaked across his face—­his eyes shooting fiery gleams of his late resentment, mingled with the wildness of unexpected horror—­as he thus stood, it would be impossible to contemplate a more revolting picture of that state to which the principles that had regulated his life must ultimately lead, even in this world.

On perceiving what he had done, the deep working of his powerful frame was struck into sudden stillness, and he turned his eyes on his bleeding daughter, with a fearful perception of her situation.  Now was the harvest of his creed and crimes reaped in blood; and he felt that the stroke which had fallen upon him was one of those by which God will sometimes bare his arm and vindicate his justice.  The reflection, however, shook him not:  the reality of his misery was too intense and pervading, and grappled too strongly with his hardened and unbending spirit, to waste its power upon a nerve or a muscle.  It was abstracted, and beyond the reach of bodily suffering.  From the moment his daughter fell, he moved not:  his lips were half open with the conviction produced by the blasting truth of her death, effected prematurely by his own hand.

Those parts of his face which had not been stained with her blood assumed an ashy paleness, and rendered his countenance more terrific by the contrast.  Tall, powerful, and motionless, he appeared to the crowd, glaring at the girl like a tiger anxious to join his offspring, yet stunned with the shock of the bullet which has touched a vital part.  His iron-gray hair, as it fell in thick masses about his neck, was moved slightly by the blast, and a lock which fell over his temple was blown back with a motion rendered more distinct by his statue-like attitude, immovable as death.

A silent and awful gathering of the people around this impressive scene, intimated their knowledge of what they considered to be a judicial punishment annexed to perjury upon the Donagh.  This relic lay on the table, and the eyes of those stood within view of it, turned from Anthony’s countenance to it, and again back to his blood-stained visage, with all the overwhelming influence of superstitious fear.  Shudderings, tremblings, crossings, and ejaculations marked their conduct and feeling; for though the incident in itself was simply a fatal and uncommon one, yet they considered it supernatural and miraculous.