brave boy--my only son--why do you talk
about death? What is it for? what is it about? Oh, for the love of God,
tell us what did our boy do?"

"He is charged by Bartle Flanagan," replied one of the constables,
"with burning Bodagh Buie O'Brien's haggard, because he refused him his
daughter. He must now come with us to jail."

"I see the whole plot," said Connor, "and a deep one it is; the villain
will do his worst; still I can't but have dependence upon justice and
my own innocence. I can't but have dependence upon God, who knows my
heart."

PART IV.

Fardorougha stood amazed and confounded, looking from one to another
like a man who felt incapable of comprehending all that had passed
before him. His forehead, over which fell a few gray thin locks, assumed
a deadly paleness, and his eye lost the piercing expression which
usually characterized it. He threw his Cothamore several times over his
shoulders, as he had been in the habit of doing when about to proceed
after breakfast to his usual avocations, and as often laid it aside,
without being at all conscious of what he did. His limbs appeared to
get feeble, and his hands trembled as if he labored under palsy. In this
mood he passed from one to another, sometimes seizing a constable by the
arm with a hard, tremulous grip, and again suddenly letting go his hold
of him without speaking. At length a singular transition from this state
of mind became apparent; a gleam of wild exultation shot from his eye;
his sallow and blasted features brightened; the Cothamore was buttoned
under his chin with a rapid energy of manner evidently arising from the
removal of some secret apprehension.

"Then," he exclaimed, "it's no robbery; it's not robbery afther all; but
how could it? there's no money here; not a penny; an' I'm belied, at any
rate; for there's not a poorer man in the barony--thank God, it's not
robbery!"

"Oh, Fardorougha," said the wife, "don't you see they're goin' to take
him away from us?"

"Take who away from us?"

"Connor, your own Connor--our boy--the light of my heart--the light of
his poor mother's heart! Oh, Connor, Connor, what is it they're goin' to
do to you?"

"No harm, mother, I trust; no harm--don't be frightened."

The old man put his open hands to his temples, which he pressed
bitterly, and with all his force, for nearly half a minute. He had,
in truth, been alarmed into the very worst mood of his habitual vice,
apprehension concerning