it for something else that ’ud be useful to you.  Buy a couple o’ cows—­or keep it till next rent day; we won’t hurry you—­you’re a dacent man, and we respect you.’  Well, I did put the money to other uses, when what should come down on me when the next half year’s rent was due, but an Execution.  He got a man of his own to swear that I was about to run away wid the rent, and go to America; and in a few days we were scattered widout a house to cover us.  May the Lord reward him accordin’ to his works!”

There were other unprincipled cases where Phil’s profligacy was brought to bear upon the poverty and destitution of the uneducated and unprotected female; but it is not our intention to do more than to allude to them.

We now return to young O’Regan himself, who, at the conclusion, once more got a candle, and precisely in the same manner as he had done in the beginning, held it up and asked in a full firm voice, “mother, do you know your son?” And again received the same melancholy and unconscious gaze.  “Now,” said he, “you’ve all heard an account, and a true account, of these two villains’ conduct.  What have they left undone?  They have cheated you, robbed you, and oppressed you in every shape.  They have scourged to death and transported your sons—­and they have ruined your daughters, and brought them to sin and shame—­sorrow and distraction.  What have they left undone, I ax again?  Haven’t they treated yez like the dirt under their feet? hunted yez like bloodhounds, as they are—­and as if ye were mad dogs?  What is there that they haven’t made yez suffer?  Shame, sin, poverty, hardship, bloodshed, ruin, death, and madness; look there”—­he added, vehemently pointing to his insane mother—­“there’s one proof that you see; and you’ve heard and know the rest.  And now for their trial.”

Those blood-stirring observations were followed by a deep silence, in fact, like that of death.

“Now,” said he, pulling out a paper, “I have marked down here twelve names that I will read for you.  They are to act as a jury; they are to thry them both for their lives—­and then to let us hear their sentence.”

He then read over the twelve names, every man answering to his name as he called them out.

“Now,” he proceeded, “this is how you are to act; your silence will give consent to any question that is asked of you.  Are you willin’ that these twelve men should thry Valentine M’Clutchy and his son for their lives; and that the sentence is to be put in execution on them?” To this there was a profound and ominous silence.

“Very well,” said he, “you agree to this.  Now,” said he to the jurors, “find your sentence.”

The men met together, and whispered in the centre of the floor, for a few minutes—­when he, who acted as foreman, turned towards O’Regan and said—­“They’re doomed.”

“To what death?”

“To be both shot.”

“Are you all satisfied with this sentence?”