“You do not mean that you have murdered him?”

“You may call it murder if you please, Father Marty.  An eye for an eye, Father Marty!  It is justice, and I have done it.  An Eye for an Eye!”

CHAPTER XII.

Conclusion.

The story of the poor mad woman who still proclaims in her seclusion the justice of the deed which she did, has now been told.  It may perhaps be well to collect the scattered ends of the threads of the tale for the benefit of readers who desire to know the whole of a history.

Mrs. O’Hara never returned to the cottage on the cliffs after the perpetration of the deed.  On the unhappy priest devolved the duty of doing whatever must be done.  The police at the neighbouring barracks were told that the young lord had perished by a fall from the cliffs, and by them search was made for the body.  No real attempt was set on foot to screen the woman who had done the deed by any concealment of the facts.  She herself was not alive to the necessity of making any such attempt.  “An eye for an eye!” she said to the head-constable when the man interrogated her.  It soon became known to all Liscannor, to Ennistimon, to the ladies at Castle Quin, and to all the barony of Corcomroe that Mrs. O’Hara had thrust the Earl of Scroope over the cliffs of Moher, and that she was now detained at the house of Father Marty in the custody of a policeman.  Before the day was over it was declared also that she was mad,—­and that her daughter was dying.

The deed which the woman had done and the death of the young lord were both terrible to Father Marty; but there was a duty thrown upon him more awful to his mind even than these.  Kate O’Hara, when her mother appeared at the priest’s house, had been alone at the cottage.  By degrees Father Marty learned from the wretched woman something of the circumstances of that morning’s work.  Kate had not seen her lover that day, but had been left in the cottage while her mother went out to meet the man, and if possible to persuade him to do her child justice.  The priest understood that she would be waiting for them,—­or more probably searching for them on the cliffs.  He got upon his horse and rode up the hill with a heavy heart.  What should he tell her; and how should he tell it?

Before he reached the cottage she came running down the hillside to him.  “Father Marty, where is mother?  Where is Mr. Neville?  You know.  I see that you know.  Where are they?” He got off his horse and put his arm round her body and seated her beside himself on the rising bank by the wayside.  “Why don’t you speak?” she said.

“I cannot speak,” he murmured.  “I cannot tell you.”

“Is he—­dead?” He only buried his face in his hands.  “She has killed him!  Mother—­mother!” Then, with one loud long wailing shriek, she fell upon the ground.