The son at this period would have awoke him, but he became more composed, for a time, and enjoyed apparently a refreshing sleep.  Still, it soon was evident that he dreamt, and as clear that a change had come o’er the spirit of his dream.

“Who’ll prevent me!” he exclaimed.  “Isn’t he my son—­our only child?  Let me alone—­I must, I must—­what’s my life?—­take it, an’ let him live.”

The tears started in Connor’s eyes, and he pressed his father to his heart.

“Don’t hould me,” he proceeded.  “O God! here, I’ll give all I’m worth, an’ save him!  O, let me, thin—­let me but kiss him once before he dies; it was I, it was myself that murdhered him—­all might ’a been well; ay, it was I that murdhered you, Connor, my brave hoy, an’ have I you in my arms?  O, aviek agus asthore machree, it was I that murdhered you, by my—­but they’re takin’ him—­they’re bearin’ him away to—­”

He started, and awoke; but so terrific had been his dream, that on opening his eyes he clasped Connor in his arms, and exclaimed,—­

“No no, I’ll hould him till you cut my grip; Connor, avick machree, hould to me!”

“Father, father, for God’s sake, think a minute, you wor only dreaming.”

“Eh—­what—­where am I?  Oh, Connor, darling, if you knew the dhrames I had—­I thought you wor on the scaffie; but thanks be to the Saver, it was only a dhrame!”

“Nothing more, father, nothing more; but for God’s sake, keep your mind aisy.  Trust in God, father, everything’s in His hands; if; it’s His will to make us suffer, we ought to submit; and if it’s not His will, He surely can bring us out of all our throubles.  That’s the greatest comfort I have.”

Fardorougha once more became calm, but still there was on his countenance, which was mournful and full of something else than simple sorrow, some deeply fixed determination, such as it was difficult to develop.

“Connor, achora,” said he, “I must lave you, for there’s little time to be lost.  What attorney would you wish me to employ?  I’ll go home and sell oats and a cow or two.  I’ve done you harm enough—­more than you know—­but now I’ll spare no cost to get you out of this business.  Connor, the tears that I saw awhile agone run down your cheeks cut me to the heart.”

The son then informed him that a friend had taken proper measures for his defence, and that any further interference on his part would only create confusion and delay.  He also entreated his father to make no allusion whatsoever to this circumstance, and added, “that he himself actually knew not the name of the friend in question, but that, as the matter stood, he considered even a surmise to be a breach of confidence that might be indelicate and offensive.  After the trial, you can and ought to pay the expenses, and not be under an obligation to any one of so solemn a kind as that.”  He then sent his affectionate love and duty to his mother, at whose name his eyes