There was no sincerer mourner at that place than Edward O'Connor, who stood aloof, in respect for the feelings of the children of the departed man, till the grave was quite filled up, and all were about to leave the spot; but then his feelings overmastered him, and, impelled by a torrent of contending emotions, he rushed forward, and throwing himself on his knees before Gustavus, he held up his hands imploringly, and sobbed forth, “Forgive me!”
“Oh, forgive me!” repeated Edward--“I could not help it--it was forced on me--it was--”
As he struggled for utterance, even the rough retainers were touched, and one of them exclaimed, “Oh, Mr. O'Connor, it was a fair fight!”
“There!” exclaimed Edward--“you hear it! Oh, give me your hand in forgiveness!”
“I forgive you,” said the boy, “but do not ask me to give you my hand to-night.”
“You are right” said Edward, springing to his feet--“you are right--you are a noble fellow; and now, remember my parting words, Gustavus:--Here, by the side of your father's grave, I pledge you my soul that through life and till death, in all extremity, Edward O'Connor is your sworn and trusty friend.”
While the foregoing scene of sadness took place in the lone churchyard, unholy watch was kept over the second coffin by the myrmidons of the law. The usurer who made the seizure had brought down from Dublin three of the most determined bailiffs from amongst the tribe, and to their care was committed the keeping of the supposed body in the old barn. Associated with these worthies were a couple of ill-conditioned country blackguards, who, for the sake of a bottle of whisky, would keep company with Old Nick himself, and who expected, moreover, to hear “a power o' news” from the “gentlemen” from Dublin, who, in their turn did not object to have their guard strengthened, as their notions of a rescue in the country parts of Ireland were anything but agreeable. The night was cold, so, clearing away from one end of the barn the sheaves of corn with which it was stored, they made a turf fire, stretched themselves on a good shake-down of straw before the cheering blaze, and circulated among them the whisky, of which they had a good store. A tap at the door announced a new-comer; but the Dublin bailiffs, fearing a surprise, hesitated to open to the knock until their country allies assured them it was a friend whose voice they recognised. The door was opened, and in walked Larry Hogan, to pick up his share of what was going, whatever it might be, saying--