“He's better off than us, I trust in God!” said Owen, with a quivering lip. “He went to rest this morning.”
A muttered prayer from all around shewed how general was the feeling of kindness entertained towards the Connors.
“When did he take it, Owen?”
“I don't know that he tuk it at all; but when I came home last night he was lying on the bed, weak and powerless, and he slept away, with scarce a pain, till daybreak; then—”
“He's in glory now, I pray God!” muttered an old man with a white beard. “We were born in the same year, and I knew him since I was a child, like that in your arms; and a good man he was.”
“Whose is the child, Owen?” said another in the crowd.
“Martin Neale's,” whispered Owen; for he feared that the little fellow might catch the words. “What's the matter with Miles? he looks very low this morning.”
This question referred to a large powerful-looking man, who, with a smith's apron twisted round his waist, sat without speaking in a corner of the shop.
“I'm afeard he's in a bad way,” whispered the man to whom he spoke. “There was a process-server, or a bailiff, or something of the kind, serving notices through the townland yesterday, and he lost a shoe off his baste, and would have Miles out, to put it on, tho' we all tould him that he buried his daughter—a fine grown girl—that mornin'. And what does the fellow do, but goes and knocks at the forge till Miles comes out. You know Miles Regan, so I needn't say there wasn't many words passed between them. In less nor two minutes—whatever the bailiff said—Miles tuck him by the throat, and pulled him down from the horse, and dragged him along to the lake, and flung him in. 'Twas the Lord's marcy he knew how to swim; but we don't know what'll be done to Miles yet, for he was the new agent's man.”
“Was he a big fellow, with a bull-dog following him?” asked Owen.