I have heard the wild war-whoop of the red Indian, as, in his own pine forest, he has unexpectedly come upon the track of his foe, and the almost extinguished hope of vengeance has been kindled again in his cruel heart—­I have listened to the scarcely less savage hurra of a storming party, as they have surmounted the crumbling ruins of a breach, and devoted to fire and sword, with that one yell, all who await them—­and once in my life it has been my fortune to have heard the last yell of defiance from a pirate crew, as they sunk beneath the raking fire of a frigate, rather than surrender, and went down with a cheer of defiance that rose even above the red artillery that destroyed but could not subdue them;—­but never, in any or all of these awful moments, did my heart vibrate to such sounds as rent the air when the fatal “Guilty” was heard by those within, and repeated to those without.  It was not grief —­it was not despair—­neither was it the cry of sharp and irrepressible anguish, from a suddenly blighted hope—­but it was the long pent-up and carefully-concealed burst of feeling which called aloud for vengeance —­red and reeking revenge upon all who had been instrumental in the sentence then delivered.  It ceased, and I looked towards the court-house, expecting that an immediate and desperate attack upon the building and those whom it contained would at once take place.  But nothing of the kind ensued; the mob were already beginning to disperse, and before I recovered perfectly from the excitement of these few and terrible moments, the square was nearly empty, and I almost felt as if the wild and frantic denunciation that still rang through my ears, had been conjured up by a heated and fevered imagination.

When I again met our party at the dinner table, I could not help feeling surprised on perceiving how little they sympathized in my feeling for the events of the day; which, indeed, they only alluded to in a professional point of view—­criticising the speeches of the counsel on both sides, and the character of the different witnesses who were examined.

“Well,” said Mr. Daly, addressing our host, “you never could have had a conviction to-day if it wasn’t for Mike.  He’s the best evidence I ever heard.  I’d like to know very much how you ever got so clever a fellow completely in your clutches?”

“By a mere accident, and very simply,” replied the justice.  “It was upon one of our most crowded fair days—­half the county was in town, when the information arrived that the Walshes were murdered the night before, at the cross-roads above Telenamuck mills.  The news reached me as I was signing some tithe warrants, one of which was against Mickey.  I sent for him into the office, knowing that as he was in the secret of all the evil doings, I might as well pretend to do him a service, and offer to stop the warrant, out of kindness as it were.  Well, one way or another, he was kept waiting for several hours while I was engaged in writing,