e; still, it was easy to
perceive that the man was collected and rational.

It was now, however, that a scene took place, which could not, we
imagine, be witnessed out of distracted and unhappy Ireland. Raymond,
who appeared to dread the approach of those whom he termed M'Clutchy's
blood-hounds, no sooner saw that the religious rites were concluded,
than he ran out to reconnoitre. In a moment, however, he returned a
picture of terror, and dragging the woman to the door, pointed to a
declivity below the house, exclaiming--

[Illustration: PAGE 186-- See, Mary, see--they're gallopin]

"See, Mary, see--they're gallopin'." The dying man seemed conscious of
what was said, for the groan he gave was wild and startling; his wife
dropped on her knees at the door, where she could watch her husband and
those who approached, and clasping her hands, exclaimed, "To your mercy,
O Lord of heaven, to your mercy take him, before he falls into their
hands, that will show him none!" She then bestowed upon him a look full
of an impatient agony, which no language could describe; her eyes had
already become wild and piercing--her cheek flushed--and her frame
animated with a spirit that seemed to partake at once of terror, intense
hatred, and something like frenzy.

"They are gallopin'! they are gallopin'!" she said, "and they will find
life in him!" She then wrung her hands, but shed not a tear--"speed,
Hugh," she said, "speed, speed, husband of my heart--the arms of God are
they not open for you, and why do you stay?" These sentiments, we
should have informed our readers, were uttered, or rather chaunted in
a recitative of sorrow, in Irish; Irish being the language in which
the peasantry who happen to speak both it and English, always express
themselves when more than usually excited. "The sacred oil of salvation
is upon you--the sacrament of peace and forgiveness has lightened your
soul--the breath of mercy is the breath you're breathin'--the hope of
Jesus is in your heart, and the intercession of his blessed mother, she
that knew sorrow herself, is before you! Then, light of my heart, the
arms of God are they not open for you, and why do you stay here?"

"Nearer--nearer," she exclaimed, "they are nearer--whippin' and spurrin'
their horses! Hugh O'Regan, that was the sun of my life, and of my
heart, and ever without a cloud, hasten to the God of mercy! Oh, surely,
you will not blame your own Mary that was your lovin' wife--and the
trea