She left him abruptly, and at a rapid pace proceeded back to the Grey Stone, around which she walked, with a view of examining whether or not there might be any cause visible, earthly or otherwise, for the groans which they had heard; but notwithstanding a close and diligent search, she could neither see nor hear anything whatsoever to which they might possibly be ascribed.

She reached home about one o’clock, and after having sat musing for a time over the fire, which was raked for the night—­that is, covered over with greeshaugh, or living ashes—­she was preparing to sleep in her humble bed, behind a little partition wall about five feet high, at the lower end of the cabin, when her father, who had been moaning, and staring, and uttering abrupt exclamations in his sleep, at length rose up, and began deliberately to dress himself, as if with an intention of going out.

“Father,” said she, “in the name of goodness, where are you goin’ at this time o’ the night?”

“I’m goin’ to the murdhered man’s grave,” he replied, “I’m goin’ to toll them all how he was murdhered, an’ who it was that murdhered him.”

A girl with nerves less firm would have felt a most deadly terror at such language, on perceiving, as Sarah at once did, that her father, whose eyes were shut, was fast asleep at the time.  In her, however, it only produced such a high degree of excitement and interest, as might be expected from one of her ardent and excitable temperament, imbued as it was with a good deal of natural romance.

“In God’s name,” she said to herself, “what can this mean?  Of late he hasn’t had one hour’s quiet rest at night; nothin’ but startin’ and shoutin’ out, an’ talkin’ about murdher an’ murdherers!  What can it mane? for he’s now walkin’ in his sleep?  Father,” said she, “you’re asleep; go back to bed, you had betther.”

“No, I’m not asleep,” he replied; “I’m goin’ down to the grave here below, behind the rocks down in Glendhu, where the murdhered man is lyin’ buried.”

“An’ what brings you there at this time o’ the night?”

“Ha! ha!” he replied, uttering an exclamation of caution in a low, guarded voice—­“what brings me?—­whisht, hould your tongue, an’ I’ll tell you.”

She really began to doubt her senses, notwithstanding the fact of his eyes being shut.

“Whisht yourself,” she replied; “I don’t want to hear anything about it; I have no relish for sich saicrets.  I’m ready enough with my own hand, especially when there’s a weapon in it—­readier then ever I’ll be again; but for all that I don’t wish to hear sich saicrets.  Are you asleep or awake?”

“I’m awake, of coorse,” he replied.

“An’ why are your eyes shut then?  You’re frightful, father, to look at; no corpse ever had sich a face as you have; your heavy brows are knit in sich a way; jist as if you were in agony; your cheeks are so white too, an’ your mouth is down at the corners, that a ghost—­ay, the ghost of the murdhered man himself—­would be agreeable compared to you.  Go to bed, father, if you’re awake.”