“If ye cry that loud, I 'll leave you too,” said the hag. “They know already 'tis the spotted fever ye have, and the Tapageers would burn the house under ye, if I was to go.”
“Don't go, Molly,—don't leave me,” he cried, with heart-rending anguish. “Bring the blessed candle nearer; I don't see it well.”
“You'll see less of it soon; 'tis nigh out,” said she, snuffing the wick with her fingers.
The dying man now stretched out his fleshless fingers towards the light, and I could see by his lips that he was praying. “They 're calling me now,” cried he, “Molly,”—and his voice of a sudden grew strong and full,—“don't ye hear them? There it is again,—'Maurice Cafferty, Maurice Cafferty, yer wantin'.”
“Lie down and be at peace,” said she, rudely pushing him back on the bed.
“The blessed candle, where's the blessed candle?” shrieked he.
“'T is out,” said the hag; and as she spoke, the wick fell into the saucer, and all was dark.
A wild and fearful cry broke from the sick man and re-echoed through the silent house; and ere it died away I had crept stealthily back to my place beside my companions.
“'Did ye hear anything, or was I dreamin'?” said Joe to me; “I thought I heard the most dreadful scream,—like a man drownin'.”
“It was a dream, perhaps,” said I, shuddering at the thought of what I had just witnessed, while I listened with terrible anxiety for auy sound overhead; but none came; and so passed the long hours till day-dawn.