“Villain, indeed! you may well say so,” returned the Bodagh.  “That villain is no other than Connor O’Donovan!”

Una felt as if a weighty burden had been removed from her heart; she breathed freely; her depression and alarm vanished, and her dark eye kindled into proud confidence in the integrity of her lover.

“And, father,” she asked, in a full and firm voice, “is there nothing worse than that to come?”

“Worse! is the girl’s brain turned?”

“Dhar a Lhora Heena, she’s as mad I believe as ould Fardorougha himself,” said the mother; “worse! why, she has parted wid all the reasing she ever had.”

“Indeed, mother, I hope I have not, and that my reason’s as clear as ever; but, as to Connor O’Donovan, he’s innocent of that charge, and of every other that may be brought against him; I don’t believe it, and I never will.”

“It’s proved against him; it’s brought, home to him.”

“Who’s his accuser?”

“His father’s servant, Bartle Flanagan, has turned king’s evidence.”

“The deep-dyed villain!” she exclaimed, with indignation; “father, of that crime, so sure as God’s in heaven, so sure is Connor O’Donovan innocent, and so sure is Bartle Flanagan guilty—­I know it.”

“You know it—­explain yourself.”

“I mean I feel it—­ay, home to the core of my heart—­my unhappy heart—­I feel the truth of what I say.”

“Una,” observed her brother, “I’m afraid you have been vilely deceived by him—­there’s not the slightest doubt of his guilt.”

“Don’t you be deceived, John; I say he’s innocent—­as I hope for heaven he’s innocent; and, father, I’m not a bit cast down or disheartened by anything I have yet heard against him.”

“You’re a very extraordinary girl, Una; but for my part I’m glad you look upon it as you do.  If his innocence appears, no man alive will be better plazed at it than myself.”

“His innocence will appear,” exclaimed the faithful girl; “it must appear; and,—­father, mark this—­I say the time will tell yet who is innocent and who is guilty.  God knows,” she added, her energy of manner increasing, while a shower of hot tears fell down her cheeks, “God knows I would marry him to-morrow with the disgrace of that and ten times as much upon him, so certain am I that his heart and hand are free from thought or deed that’s either treacherous or dishonorable.”

“Marry him!” said her brother, losing temper; “nobody doubts but you’d marry him on the gallows, wid the rope about his neck.”

“I would do it, and unite myself to a true heart.  Don’t mistake me, and mother, dear, don’t blame me,” she added, her tears flowing still faster; “he’s in disgrace—­sunk in shame and sorrow—­and I won’t conceal the force of what I feel for him; I won’t desert him now as the world will do; I know his heart, and on the scaffold to-morrow I would become his wife, if it would take away one atom of his misery.”