“If justice,” said the judge, “could on an occasion waive her claim to a subordinate link in the testimony she requires, it would certainly be in a case so painful and affecting as this.  Still, we cannot permit personal feeling, however amiable, or domestic attachment, however strong, to impede her progress when redressing public wrong.  Although the duty be painful, and we admit that such a duty is one of unexampled agony, yet it must be complied with; and you consequently will answer the question which the counsel has put to you.  The interests of society require such sacrifices, and they must be made.”

The old man kept his eyes fixed on the judge while he spoke, but when he had ceased he again fixed them on his son.

“My lord,” he exclaimed again, with clasped hands, “I can’t, I can’t!”

“There is nothing criminal, or improper, or sinful in it,” replied the judge; “on the contrary, it is your duty, both as a Christian and a man.  Remember, you have this moment sworn to tell the truth, and the whole truth; you consequently must keep your oath.”

“What you say, sir, may be right, an’ of coorse is; but oh, my lord, I’m not able; I can’t get out the words to hang my only boy.  If I said anything to hurt him, my heart ’ud break before your eyes.  May be you don’t know the love of a father for an only son?”

“Perhaps, my lords,” observed the attorney-general, “it would be desirable to send for a clergyman of his own religion, who might succeed in prevailing on him to—­”

“No,” interrupted Fardorougha; “my mind’s made up; a word against him will never come from my lips, not for priest or friar.  I’d die widout the saykerment sooner.”

“This is trifling with the court,” said the judge, assuming an air of severity, which, however, he did not feel.  “We shall be forced to commit you to prison unless you give evidence.”

“My lord,” said Fardorougha, meekly, but firmly, “I am willin’ to go to prison—­I am willin’ to die with him, if he is to die, but I neither can nor will open my lips against him.  If I thought him guilty I might; but I know he is innocent—­my heart knows it; an’ am I to back the villain that’s strivin’ to swear his life away?  No, Connor avourneen, whatever they do to you, your father will have no hand in it.”

The court, in fact, were perplexed in the extreme.  The old man was not only firm, from motives of strong attachment, but intractable from an habitual narrowness of thought, which prevented him from taking that comprehensive view of justice and judicial authority which might overcome the repugnance of men less obstinate from ignorance of legal usages.

“I ask you for the last time,” said the judge, “will you give your evidence? because, if you refuse, the court will feel bound to send you to prison.”

“God bless you, my lord! that’s a relief to my heart.  Anything, anything, but to say a word against a boy that, since the day he was born, never vexed either his mother or myself.  If he gets over this, I have much to make up to him; for, indeed, I wasn’t the father to him that I ought.  Avick machree, now I feel it, may be whin it’s too late.”