t us at defiance by publicly
payin' his tithes to a man that we'll take care of some o' these nights.
He's now doomed, an' was tried on the last night of our meetin'. This
night he dies. Them that has his life in their hands knows who he is an'
where they'll find him. Once and for all then this night he dies. Now,
boys, such of you as have nothing to do go home, and such of you as have
your work before you do it like men, and don't draw down destruction on
yourselves by neglectin' it. You know your fate if you flinch.--I have
done."

Those who were not on duty, to use a military phrase, returned across
the moors by the way they came, and consequently reached the bridle road
we have spoken of, together. Such, however, as were set apart for the
outrages and crimes of the night, remained behind, in order that the
peculiar destination of their atrocities might be known only to the
individuals who were appointed to perpetrate them.

On their return, our unknown friend, who had rendered such an essential
service to M'Carthy, thus addressed his companion--that is to say, the
man who happened to be next him,--

"Well, neighbor, what do you think of this night's work?"

"Why, that everything's right, of coorse," replied the other; "any man
that strives to keep the Millstone about our necks desarves his fate; at
the same time," he added, dropping his voice still lower, "I'd as soon
not be the man to do the deed, neighbor."

"Well, I can't say," returned our friend, "but I'm a trifle of your way
of thinkin'."

"There's one thing troubles me," added his companion, an' it's
this--there was a young lad wid us to-night from my neighborhood, he
was near the last of us as we went along the road on our way to the
mountains; I seen him whisperin' to some one a good deal as we
came out--now, I know there's not on airth a kinder-hearted or more
affectionate boy than he is; he hasn't a heart to hurt a fly, and is
loved and respected by every one in the neighborhood. Very well! God
of glory! isn't it too bad, that this one, handsome, lovin', and
affectionate boy, the only child of his father and mother,--_fareer
gair_ (* Bitter misfortune.)--my friend, whoever you are, isn't it too
bad, that that boy, innocent and harmless as a child, will go home to
his lovin' parents a murdherer this night?"

"What makes you say so?" asked our unknown friend.

"Why," replied the man, "he stood beside me in the ranks, and has been
sent to murdher t