“Feel for him; me! oh, little you know how my heart’s in him; but any way, I’m an unhappy man; everything in the world wide goes against me; but—­oh, my darlin’ boy—­Connor, Connor, my son, to be tould that I don’t feel for you—­well you know, avourneen machree—­well you know that I feel for you, and ’ud kiss the track of your feet upon the ground:  Oh, it’s cruel to tell it to me; to say sich a thing to a man that his heart’s braakin’ widin him for your sake; but, sir, you sed this minute that you could defend him wid one lawyer?”

“Certainly, and with a cheap one, too, if you wish; but, in that case, I would rather decline the thing altogether.”

“Why? why? sure if you can defind him chapely, isn’t it so much saved? isn’t it the same as if you definded him at a higher rate?  Sure, if one lawyer tells the truth for the poor boy, ten or fifteen can do no more; an’ thin maybe they’d crass in an’ puzzle one another if you hired too many of them.”

“How would you feel, should your son be found guilty; you know the penalty is his life.  He will be executed.”

O’Brien could hear the old man clap his hands in agony, and in truth he walked about wringing them as if his heart would burst.

“What will I do?” he exclaimed; “what will I do?  I can’t lose him, an’ I won’t lose him!  Lose him! oh God, oh God, it is to lose the best son and only child that ever man had!  Wouldn’t it be downright murdher in me to let him be lost if I could prevint it?  Oh, if I was in his place, what wouldn’t he do for me, for the father that he always loved!”

The tears ran copiously down his furrowed cheeks; and his whole appearance evinced such distraction and anguish as could rarely be witnessed.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he added; “I’ll give you fifty guineas after my death if you’ll defind him properly.”

“Much obliged,” replied the other; “but in matters of this kind we make no such bargains.”

“I’ll make it sixty, in case you don’t axe it now.”

“Can you give me security that I’ll survive you?  Why, you are tough-looking enough to outlive me.”

“Me tough!—­no, God help me, my race is nearly ran; I won’t be alive this day twelve months—­look at the differ atween us.”

“This is idle talk,” said the attorney; “determine on what you’ll do; really my time is valuable, and I am now wasting it to no purpose.”

“Take the offer—­depind on’t it’ll soon come to you.”

“No, no,” said the other, coolly; “not at all; we might shut up shop if we made such post obit bargains as that.”

“I’ll tell you,” said Fardorougha; “I’ll tell you what;” his eyes gleamed with a reddish, bitter light; and he clasped his withered hands together, until the joints cracked, and the perspiration teemed from his pale, sallow features; “I’ll tell you,” he added—­“I’ll make it seventy!”

“No.”

“Aighty!”