light, which made every object distinctly visible.
The sounds were now close behind me. I felt my knees bending under
me, with the sensation which unnerves one in a dream. I reeled,
I stumbled, I fell; and at the same instant the cause of my alarm
wheeled past me at full gallop. It was one of the young fillies which
pastured loose about the park, whose frolics had thus all but maddened
me with terror. I scrambled to my feet, and rushed on with weak but
rapid steps, my sportive companion still galloping round and round me
with many a frisk and fling, until, at length, more dead than alive,
I reached the avenue-gate, and crossed the stile, I scarce knew how.
I ran through the village, in which all was silent as the grave, until
my progress was arrested by the hoarse voice of a sentinel, who
cried "Who goes there?" I felt that I was now safe. I turned in the
direction of the voice, and fell fainting at the soldier's feet. When
I came to myself, I was sitting in a miserable hovel, surrounded by
strange faces, all bespeaking curiosity and compassion. Many soldiers
were in it also; indeed, as I afterwards found, it was employed as a
guard-room by a detachment of troops quartered for that night in the
town. In a few words I informed their officer of the circumstances
which had occurred, describing also the appearance of the persons
engaged in the murder; and he, without further loss of time than was
necessary to procure the attendance of a magistrate, proceeded to the
mansion-house of Carrickleigh, taking with him a party of his men.
But the villains had discovered their mistake, and had effected their
escape before the arrival of the military.

The Frenchwoman was, however, arrested in the neighbourhood upon the
next day. She was tried and condemned at the ensuing assizes; and
previous to her execution confessed that "_she had a hand in making
Hugh Tisdall's bed_." She had been a housekeeper in the castle at the
time, and a _chere amie_ of my uncle's. She was, in reality, able
to speak English like a native, but had exclusively used the French
language, I suppose to facilitate her designs. She died the same
hardened wretch she had lived, confessing her crimes only, as she
alleged, that her doing so might involve Sir Arthur Tyrrell, the
great author of her guilt and misery, and whom she now regarded with
unmitigated detestation.

With the particulars of Sir Arthur's and his son's escape, as far
as they are known, you are ac