“What has happened me? am I robbed? are you robbers?  But I tell you there’s no money in the house.  I lodged the last penny yesterday—­afore my God I did—­but—­oh, what am I sayin’? what is this, Connor?”

“Father dear, compose yourself—­we’ll get over this throuble.”

“We will, darlin’,” said Honor, wiping the pale brows of her husband; “an’ we won’t lose him.”

“No, achora,” said the old man; “no, we won’t lose him!  Connor?”

“Well, father dear!”

“There’s a thing here—­here”—­and he placed his hand upon his heart—­“something it is that makes me afeard—­a sinkin’—­a weight—­and there’s a strugglin’, too, Connor.  I know I can’t stand it long—­an’ it’s about you—­it’s all about you.”

“You distress yourself too much, father; indeed you do.  Why, I hoped that you would comfort my poor mother till I come back to her and you, as I will, plase God.”

“Yes,” he replied; “yes, I will, I will.”

“You had better prepare,” said one of the officers; “the sooner this is over the better—­he’s a feeble man and not very well able to bear it.”

“You are right,” said Connor; “I won’t delay many minutes; I have only to change my clothes, an’ I am ready.”

In a short time he made his appearance dressed in his best suit; and, indeed, it would be extremely difficult to meet, in any rank of life, a finer specimen of vigor, activity, and manly beauty.  His countenance, at all times sedate and open, was on this occasion shaded by an air of profound melancholy that gave a composed grace and dignity to his whole bearing.

“Now, father,” said he, “before I go, I think it right to lave you and my poor mother all the consolation I can.  In the presence of God, in yours, in my dear mother’s, and in the presence of all who hear me, I am as innocent of the crime that’s laid to my charge as the babe unborn.  That’s a comfort for you to know, and let it prevent you from frettin’; and now, good by; God be with you, and strengthen, and support you both!”

Fardorougha had already seized his hand; but the old man could neither speak nor weep; his whole frame appeared to have been suddenly pervaded by a dry agony that suspended the beatings of his very heart.  The mother’s grief, on the contrary, was loud, and piercing, and vehement.  She threw herself once more upon his neck; she kissed his lips, she pressed him to her heart, and poured out as before the wail of a wild and hopeless misery.  At length, by the aid of some slight but necessary force, her arms were untwined from about his neck; and Connor then, stooping, embraced his father, and, gently placing him on a settle—­bed, bade him farewell!  On reaching the door he paused, and, turning about, surveyed his mother struggling in the hands of one of the officers to get embracing him again, and his gray—­haired father sitting in speechless misery on the settle.  He stood a moment to look upon them, and a few bitter tears rolled, in the silence of manly sorrow, down his cheeks.