Lucas instantly took a pistol from the breast of his coat, and cocked it; while the ghastly whiteness of his cheek shewed he did not think the danger was yet over.
“Put up your weapon,” said Owen, contemptuously. “What would I care for it, if I wanted to take your life? do you think the likes of me has any hould on the world?” and he laughed a scornful and bitter laugh.
“How is this, then?” cried Leslie; “is murder so light a crime that a man like this does not shrink from it?”
“The country,” whispered Lucas, “is indeed in a fearful state. The rights of property no longer exist among us. That fellow—because he lost his farm—”
“Stop, sir!” cried Owen, fiercely; “I will deny nothing of my guilt—but lay not more to my charge than is true. Want and misery have brought me low—destitution and recklessness still lower—but if I swore to have your life this night, it was not for any vengeance of my own.”
“Ha! then there is a conspiracy!” cried Lucas, hastily. “We must have it out of you—every word of it—or it will go harder with yourself.”
Owen's only reply was a bitter laugh; and from that moment, he never uttered another word. All Lucas's threats, all Leslie's entreaties, were powerless and vain. The very allusion to becoming an informer was too revolting to be forgiven, and he firmly resolved to brave any and every thing, rather than endure the mere proposal.
They returned to Galway as soon as the post-boys had succeeded in repairing the accidental breakage of the harness, which led to the opportune appearance of the landlord and his agent in the hut; Owen accompanying them without a word or a gesture.
So long as Lucas was present, Owen never opened his lips; the dread of committing himself, or in any way implicating one amongst his companions, deterred him; but when Leslie sent for him, alone, and asked him the circumstances which led him to the eve of so great a crime, he confessed all—omitting nothing, save such passages as might involve others—and even to Leslie he was guarded on this topic.
The young landlord listened with astonishment and sorrow to the peasant's story. Never till now did he conceive the mischiefs neglect and abandonment can propagate, nor of how many sins mere poverty can be the parent. He knew not before that the very endurance of want can teach another endurance, and make men hardened against the terrors of the law and its inflictions. He was not aware of the condition of his tenantry; he wished them all well off and happy; he had no self-accusings of a grudging nature, nor an oppressive disposition, and he absolved himself of any hardships that originated with “the agent.”