"Sorrow saze yer tongue, thin, ye born idiot!"
"Well, by dad, it comes so natural to me, Joe, to call him by his own name, that one can't help it; but it war only four o'clock when we left this, this blessed afthernoon—that is, yesterday afthernoon—an' since that we wor down at Mulready's, an' then at Drumleesh, an' now we're here agin; why how many miles is that?"
"Niver mind the miles; he"—and Joe pointed to Thady—"he has done a deal more than that in the same time—an' whatever comes of it, he did a good deed. Howsomever, if you'll take my advice, you'll take a stretch now. Meg!—I say, Meg,"—and he turned round to the girl who was lying in the corner—"get out of that, an' make room for this man to lie down. You've been asleep all night; make room for yer betthers now."
The girl, without grumbling, turned out of bed, and burthened with no feeling of conventional modesty, commenced and finished her toilet, by getting into an old ragged calico gown, and tying up, with a bit of antique tape, her long rough locks which had escaped from their bondage during her sleep. Thady for a long time resisted, but Joe at last was successful in persuading him to take advantage of the bed which Meg had so good-humouredly relinquished.
"I an' Corney have still-work to do afore daylight, an' we won't be back afore it's night," said Joe, "but do you bide here, an' you'll be safe. You must put up with the pratees this day, for there's nothing better in it at all; but I'll be getting something fitter for you by night; an' av' you feel low, which you'll be doing when you wakes, mind, there's the sperrits in the jar there undher the bed; a sup of it won't hurt you now an' agin, for indeed you'll be wanting it, by yerself here all day. An' look you,"—and he led him to the door as he spoke, and pointed to the two within—"they'll soon know who you are, an' all about it; but you needn't be talking to them, you know; an' you may be quite certain, that even should any one be axing about you, they'll niver 'peach, or give the word to the police, or any one else. Av you like to go out of this during the day, don't go further than the kiln; an' av you lie there, you could easily see them miles afore they war nigh you, even av anything should put it into their heads to think of coming afther you to Aughacashel."
The two guides then took their leave of him, and Thady laid himself down on Meg's bed, and, after a time, from sheer fatigue and exhaustion, he fell asleep.
CHAPTER XXIII.
AUGHACASHEL.
At what hour he woke Thady did not know, but it was broad day, and the sun was high in the heavens; he would have slept again if he could, that he might again forget the dreadful deed which had made the last night so horrible, but he could not; he was obliged therefore to get up, and when he did so he felt himself weak for want of food. Meg it appears had gone out. The old man could not speak a word of English; but Thady could talk Irish, and he had no difficulty in getting plenty of potatoes from him, and as he was eating them the old man pulled out the jar of whiskey. Thady took part of another cup full, and then felt less sad than he had done before. After his breakfast he sat for a long time over the fire, smoked his pipe till he had no tobacco left in it, got up and sat down again, walked to the door and then again returned to his seat. At last he became dreadfully fatigued; he felt all the misery which a man, usually active, always feels when condemned for a time to idleness; he sat watching the turf, as though he could employ his mind, or interest himself in observing the different forms which the sods took, or how soon they would reduce themselves to ashes; then he counted the smutty rafters on which the crazy roof was supported, and then the different scraughs of which it was composed; he next endeavoured to think how the old man got through the tedium of his miserable existence. There he sat on the bed, quite imperturbable; he had not spoken ten words since Thady had got up, and seemed quite satisfied in sitting there enjoying the warmth of the fire, and having nothing to do. How Thady envied his quiescence! Then he began to reflect what had been this man's life; had he always been content to sit thus tranquil, and find his comfort in idleness? At last he got almost alarmed at this old man; why did not he speak to him? why did he sit there so quiet, doing nothing—saying nothing—looking at nothing—and apparently thinking of nothing? it was as sitting with a dead body or a ghost—that sitting there with that lifeless but yet breathing creature. Every now and again, as he endeavoured to fill his mind with some idea that was not distressing to him, the thoughts of the horrors of his own position would come across him—the almost certainty of detection—the ignominy of his future punishment—the disgrace to his father and his sister; and even if not detected, if left in his present concealment, the horrors of such a life as he was now leading, a few hours of which had already nearly made him frantic, nearly overwhelmed him.