“He’s sayin’ a prayer now,” observed one of them; “haven’t we a good right to be thankful that he’s in the place wid us while she’s in it, or dear knows what harm she might do us—­maybe rise the wind!"* As the latter speaker concluded, there was a dead silence.  The persons about the door crushed each other backwards, their feet set out before them, and their shoulders laid with violent pressure against those who stood behind, for each felt anxious to avoid all danger of contact with a being against whose power even a blessed priest found it necessary to guard himself by a prayer.

* It is generally supposed by the people, that persons who have entered into a compact with Satan can raise the wind by calling him up, and that it cannot be laid unless by the death of a black cock, a black dog, or an unchristened child.

At length a low murmur ran among the people—­“Father O’Rourke!—­here’s Father O’Rourke!—­he has turned the corner after her, an’ they’re both comin’ in.”  Immediately they entered, but it was quite evident from the manner of the worthy priest that he was unacquainted with the person of this singular being.  When they crossed the threshold, the priest advanced, and expressed his surprise at the throng of people assembled.

“Plase your Reverence,” said Bartley, “that’s the woman,” nodding significantly towards her as he spoke, but without looking at her person, lest the evil eye he dreaded so much might meet his, and give him “the blast.”

The dreaded female, on seeing the house in such a crowded state, started, paused, and glanced with some terror at the persons assembled.  Her dress was not altered since her last visit; but her countenance, though more meagre and emaciated, expressed but little of the unsettled energy which then flashed from her eyes, and distorted her features by the depth of that mysterious excitement by which she had been agitated.  Her countenance was still muffled as before, the awful protuberance rose from her shoulders, and the same band which Mrs. Sullivan had alluded to during their interview, was bound about the upper part of her forehead.

She had already stood upwards of two minutes, during which the fall of a feather might be heard, yet none bade God bless her—­no kind hand was extended to greet her—­no heart warmed in affection towards her; on the contrary, every eye glanced at her, as a being marked with enmity towards God.  Blanched faces and knit brows, the signs of fear and hatred, were turned upon her; her breath was considered pestilential, and her touch paralysis.  There she stood, proscribed, avoided, and hunted like a tigress, all fearing to encounter, yet wishing to exterminate her!  Who could she be?—­or what had she done, that the finger of the Almighty marked her out for such a fearful weight of vengeance?

Father Philip rose and advanced a few steps, until he stood confronting her.  His person was tall, his features dark, severe, and solemn:  and when the nature of the investigation about to take place is considered, it need not be wondered at, that the moment was, to those present, one of deep and impressive interest—­such as a visible conflict between a supposed champion of God and a supernatural being was calculated to excite.