“He was a very remarkable man in appearance; very stout, with a long face, a slight scar on his chin, and a cast in his eye.”

“Do you remember which of them?”

“Indeed I don’t, an’ it wouldn’t be raison able that I should, afther sich a distance of time.”

“And, you saw that man murdered?”

“I seen him dead, afther having been murdhered.”

“Very right—­I stand corrected.  Well, you saw him buried?”

“I didn’t see him buried, but I saw him dead, as I said, an’ the grave ready for him.”

“Do you think now if he were to rise again from that grave, that you would know him?”

“Well I’m sure I can’t say.  By all accounts the grave makes great changes, but if it didn’t change him very much entirely, it wouldn’t be hard to know him again—­for, as I said, he was a remarkable man.”

“Well, then, we shall give you an opportunity of refreshing your memory—­here,” he said, addressing himself to some person behind him; “come forward—­get up on the table, and stand face to face with that man.”

The stranger advanced—­pushed over to the corner of the table, and, mounting it, stood, as he had been directed, confronting the Black Prophet.

“Whether you seen me dead,” said the stranger, “or whether you seen me buried, is best known to yourself; all I can say is, that here I am—­by name Bartle Sullivan, alive an’ well, thanks be to the Almighty for it!”

“What is this?” asked the judge, addressing Dalton’s counsel; “who is this man?”

“My lord,” replied that gentleman, “this is the individual for the murder of whom, upon the evidence of these two villains, the prisoner at the bar stands charged.  It is a conspiracy as singular as it is diabolical; but one which, I trust, we shall clear up, by and by.”

“I must confess, I do not see my way through it at present,” returned the judge; “did not the prisoner at the bar acknowledge his guilt?—­had you not some difficulty in getting him to plead not guilty?  Are you sure, Mr. O’Hagan, that this stranger is not a counterfeit?”

The reply of counsel could not now be heard—­hundreds in the court house, on hearing his name, and seeing him alive and well before them, at once recognized his person, and testified their recognition by the usual manifestations of wonder, satisfaction and delight.  The murmur, in fact, gradually gained strength, and deepened until it fairly burst forth in one loud and astounding cheer, and it was not, as usual, until the judge had threatened to commit the first person who should again disturb the court, that it subsided.  There were two persons present, however, to whom we must direct the special attention of our readers—­we mean Condy Dalton and the Prophet, on both of whom Sullivan’s unexpected appearance produced very opposite effects.  When old Dalton first noticed the strange man getting upon the table, the appearance of Sullivan, associated, as it had been, by the language