s to have escaped alive
from that drunken face, which had glared on her for the last half hour.

After wandering about round the house and through the grounds, for
above an hour, Barry returned, half sobered, to the room; but, in his
present state of mind, he could not go to bed sober. He ordered more
hot water, and again sat down alone to drink, and drown the remorse he
was beginning to feel for what he had done--or rather, not remorse, but
the feeling of fear that every one would know how he had treated Anty,
and that they would side with her against him. Whichever way he looked,
all was misery and disappointment to him, and his only hope, for the
present, was in drink. There he sat, for a long time, with his eyes
fixed on the turf, till it was all burnt out, trying to get fresh
courage from the spirits he swallowed, and swearing to himself that he
would not be beat by a woman.

About one o'clock he seized one of the candles, and staggered up to
bed. As he passed his sister's door, he opened it and went in. She was
fast asleep; her shoes were off, and the bed-clothes were thrown over
her, but she was not undressed. He slowly shut the door, and stood, for
some moments, looking at her; then, walking to the bed, he took her
shoulder, and shook it as gently as his drunkenness would let him. This
did not wake her, so he put the candle down on the table, close beside
the bed, and, steadying himself against the bedstead, he shook her
again and again. "Anty", he whispered, "Anty"; and, at last, she opened
her eyes. Directly she saw his face, she closed them again, and buried
her own in the clothes; however, he saw that she was awake, and,
bending his head, he muttered, loud enough for her to hear, but in a
thick, harsh, hurried, drunken voice, "Anty--d'ye hear? If you marry
that man, I'll have your life!" and then, leaving the candle behind
him, he staggered off into his own room in the dark.

VI. THE ESCAPE

In vain, after that, did Anty try to sleep; turn which way she would,
she saw the bloodshot eyes and horrid drunken face of her cruel
brother. For a long time she lay, trembling and anxious; fearing she
knew not what, and trying to compose herself--trying to make herself
think that she had no present cause for fear; but in vain. If she heard
a noise, she thought it was her brother's footstep, and when the house
was perfectly silent and still, she feared the very silence itself. At
last, she crept out of bed,