[Illustration:  PAGE 143—­No, Sir Robert, I cannot take your hand]

“No, Sir Robert, I cannot take your hand, nor the hand of any man that is red with the blood of murder.  This,” said he, turning to the officers, “is Sir Robert Whitecraft; arrest him for murder and arson.”

“Why, bless me, Mr. Hastings, are you mad?  Surely, I did nothing, unless under the sanction and by the instructions of the last Government?”

“That remains to be seen, Sir Robert; but, at all events, I cannot enter into any discussion with you at present.  I am here as a magistrate.  Informations have been sworn against you by several parties, and you must now consider yourself our prisoner and come along with us.  There is a party of cavalry below to escort you to Sligo jail.”

“But how am I to be conveyed there?  I hope I will be allowed my own carriage?”

“Unquestionably,” replied Mr. Hastings; “I was about to have proposed it myself.  You shall be treated with every respect, six.”

“May I not breakfast before I go?”

“Certainly, sir; we wish to discharge our duty in the mildest possible manner.”

“Thank you, Hastings, thank you; you were always a good-hearted, gentlemanly fellow.  You will, of course, breakfast with me; and these men must be attended to.”

And he rang the bell.

“I have already breakfasted, Sir Robert; but even if I had not, it would not become me, as your prosecutor, to do so; but perhaps the men—­”

“What,” exclaimed the baronet, interrupting him, you my prosecutor!  For what, pray?”

“That will come in time,” replied the other; “and you may rest assured that I would not be here now were I not made aware that you were about to be married to that sweet girl whom you have persecuted with such a mean and unmanly spirit, and designed to start with her for England this day.”

Whitecraft, now that he felt the dreadful consequences of the awful position in which he was placed, became the very picture of despair and pusillanimity; his complexion turned haggard, his eyes wild, and his hands trembled so much that he was not able to bring the tea or bread and butter to his lips; in fact, such an impersonation of rank and I unmanly cowardice could not be witnessed.  He rose up, exclaiming, in a faint and hollow voice, that echoed no other sensation than that of horror: 

“I cannot breakfast; I can eat nothing.  What a fate is this! on the very day, too, which I thought would have consummated my happiness!  Oh, it is dreadful!”

His servant then, by Mr. Hastings’ orders, packed up changes of linen and apparel in his trunk, for he saw that he himself had not the presence of mind to pay attention to any thing.  In the course of a few minutes the carriage was ready, and with tottering steps he went down the stairs, and was obliged to be assisted into it by two constables, who took their places beside, him.  Mr. Hastings bowed to him coldly, but said nothing; the coachman smacked his whip, and was about to start, when he turned round and said: