“I will, achora,” replied Darby, “an’ may God bless you, for you have saved my life; but why should they attack me?  Sure the world knows, an’ God knows, that my heart bleeds—­”

“Whisht,” she exclaimed, “the world an’ God both know it’s a lie, if you say your heart bleeds for any thing but the destruction that you see on your place.  If you had given Peggy Murtagh the meal, she might be a livin’ woman to-day; so no more falsehoods now, or I’ll turn you back to Tom Dalton’s clutches.”

“No, then,” replied the trembling wretch, “I won’t; but between you an’ me, then,—­an’ it needn’t go farther—­troth my heart bleeds for the severity that’s—­”

“One word more,” she replied, “an’ I lave you to what you’ll get.”

Sarah’s interference had a singular effect upon the crowd.  The female portion of it having reflected upon her words, soon felt and acknowledged their truth, because they involved a principle of justice and affection to their sex; while the men, without annexing any moral consideration to the matter, felt themselves influenced by her exquisite figure and great beauty.

“She’s the Black Prophet’s daughter,” exclaimed the women; “an’ if the devil was in her, she tould Tom Dalton nothing but the truth, at any rate.”

“An’ they say the devil is in her, the Lord save us, if ever he was in any one—­keep away from her—­my sowl in Heaven! but she’d think no more of tearin’ your eyes out, or stickin’ you wid a case-knife, than you would of aitin’ bread an’ butther.”

“Blessed Father!” exclaimed another, “did you see the brightness of her eyes while she was spakin?”

“No matther what she is,” said a young fellow beside them; “the devil a purtier crature ever was made; be my soul, I only wish I had a thousand pounds, I wouldn’t be long without a wife at any rate.”

The crowd having wrecked Skinadre’s dwelling, and carried off and destroyed almost his whole stock of provisions, now proceeded in a different direction, with the intention of paying a similar visit to some similar character.  Sarah and Darby—­for he durst not venture, for the present, towards his own house—­now took their way to the cabin of old Condy Dalton, where they arrived just in time to find the house surrounded by the officers of justice, and some military.

“Ah,” thought Sarah, on seeing them; “it is done, then, an’ you lost but little time about it.  May God forgive you, father.”

They had scarcely entered, when one of the officers pulling out a paper, looked at it and asked, “Isn’t your name Condy or Cornelius Dalton?”—­

“That is my name,” said the old man.

“I arrest you, then,” he continued, “for the murder of one Bartholomew Sullivan.”

“It is the will of God,” replied the old man, while the tears flowed down his cheeks—­“it’s God’s will, an’ I won’t consale it any longer; take me away—­I’m guilty—­I’m guilty.”

CHAPTEE XXI. —­ Condy Datton goes to Prison.