late Bartholomew Sullivan; beside it was a grave dug, about two feet deep.  He was astonished and shocked, and knew not what to say; but he felt that murder had been committed, and he became dreadfully afraid.  In his confusion and alarm he looked about to try if he could see any person near, when he caught a glimpse of the prisoner, Condy Dalton, crouched among a clump of black-thorn bushes, with a spade in his hands.  It instantly came into his head that he, the prisoner, on finding himself discovered, might murder him also; and, in order to prevent the other from supposing that he had seen him, he shouted out and asked is there any body near? and hearing no answer, he was glad to get off safe.  In less than an hour he was on his way out of the country, for on coming within sight of his own house, he saw it surrounded with soldiers, and he lost no time in going to England, where, in about a month afterwards, he heard that the prisoner had been hanged for the murder, which was an untrue account of the affair, as he, the prisoner, had only been imprisoned for a time, which he supposed led to the report.

When asked why he did not communicate an account of what he had seen to some one in the neighborhood before he went, he replied, that “at that hour the whole country was in bed, and when a man is flying for his life, he is not very anxious to hould conversations with any body.”

On the cross-examination he said, that the reason why he let the matter rest until now was, that he did not wish to be the means of bringin’ a fellow-creature to an untimely death, especially such a man as the prisoner, nor to be the means of drawing down disgrace upon his decent and respectable family.  His conscience, however, always kept him uneasy, and to tell the truth, he had neither peace nor rest for many a long year, in consequence of concealing his knowledge of the murder, and he now came forward to free his own mind from what he had suffered by it.  He wished both parties well, and he hoped no one would blame him for what he was doing, for, indeed, of late, he could not rest in his bed at night.  Many a time the murdhered man appeared to him, and threatened him, he thought for not disclosing what he knew.

At this moment, there was a slight bustle at that side of the court where the counsel for the defense sat, which, after a little time, subsided, and the evidence was about to close, when the latter gentleman, after having closely cross-examined him to very little purpose, said: 

“So you tell us, that in consequence of your very tender conscience, you have not, of late, been able to rest in your bed at night?”

“I do.”

“And you say the murdered man appeared to you and threatened you?”

“I do.”

“Which of them?”

“Peter Magennis—­what am I sayin’?  I mean Bartle Sullivan.”

“Gentlemen of the jury, you will please take down the name of Peter Magennis—­will your lordship also take a note of that?  Well,” he proceeded, “will you tell us what kind of a man this Bartle or Bartholomew Sullivan was?”