“Have sinse,” said Darby; “this is not the way to behave, man; lave the gun lyin’ where she is, till we see more about us.  Stand back there, an’ let me look at these marks:  ay, about five yards—­there’s the track of feet about five yards before him—­here they turn about, an’ go back.  Here, Savior o’ the world! see here! the mark, clane an’ clear, of the butt o’ the gun!  Now if that boy stretched afore us had the gun in his hand the time she went off, could the mark of it be here?  Bring me down the gun—­an’ the curse o’ God upon her for an unlucky thief, whoever had her!  It’s thrue!—­it’s too thrue!” he continued—­“the man that had the gun stood on this spot.”

“It’s a falsity,” said Frank; “it’s a damnable falsity.  Rody Teague, I call upon you to spake for me.  Didn’t you see, when we went out to the hills, that it was Mike carried the gun, an’ not me?”

“I did,” replied Rody.  “I can swear to that.”

“Ay,” exclaimed Prank, with triumph; “an’ you yourself, Darby, saw us, as I said, makin’ up whatsomever little differences there was betwixt us.”

“I did,” replied the mendicant, sternly; “but I heard you say, no longer ago than last night—­say!—­why you swhore it, man alive!—­that if you wouldn’t have Peggy Gartland, he never should.  In your own stable I heard it, an’ I was the manes of disappointin’ you an’ your gang, when you thought to take away the girl by force.  You’re well known too often to carry a fair face when the heart under it is black wid you.”

“All I can say is,” observed young Reillaghan, “that if it comes out agin you that you played him foul, all the earth won’t save your life; I’ll have your heart’s blood, if I should hang for it a thousand times.”

This dialogue was frequently interrupted by the sobbings and clamor of the women, and the detached conversation of some of the men, who were communicating to each other their respective opinions upon the melancholy event which had happened.

Darby More now brought Reillaghan’s father aside, and thus addressed him:—­

“Gluntho! (* Listen)—­to tell God’s thruth, I’ve sthrong suspicions that your son was murdhered.  This sacred thing that I put the crass upon people’s breast wid, saves people from hangin’ an’ unnatural deaths.  Frank spoke to me last night, no longer ago, to come up an’ mark it an’ him to-morrow.  My opinion is, that he intinded to murdher him at that time, an’ wanted to have a protection agin what might happen to him in regard o’ the black deed.”

“Can we prove it agin him?” inquired the disconsolate father:  “I know it’ll be hard, as there was no one present but themselves; an’ if he did it, surely he’ll not confess it.”

“We may make him do it maybe,” said the mendicant; “the villain’s asily frightened, an’ fond o’ charms an’ pisthrogues,* an’ sich holy things, for all his wickedness.  Don’t say a word.  We’ll take him by, surprise; I’ll call upon him to touch the corpse.  Make them women—­an’ och, it’s hard to expect it—­make them stop clappin’ their hands an’ cryin’; an’ let there be a dead silence, if you can.”