A heavy groan from the wretched doctor, as he sank in a faint, was the only response; for in his fear he thought the contents of the piece were in his body.
“Musha, I hope he isn't dead,” said Kerry, as he opened the wicket cautiously, and peeped out with a lantern. “Mister Cassidy—Mister James, get up now—it's only joking I was.—Holy Joseph! is he kilt?” and overcome by a sudden dread of having committed murder, Kerry stepped out, and approached the motionless figure before him. “By all that's good, I've done for the sheriff,” said he, as he stood over the body. “Oh! wirra, wirra! who'd think a few grains of shot would kill him.”
“What's the matter here? who fired that shot?” said a deep voice, as Mark O'Donoghue appeared at Kerry's side, and snatching the lantern, held it down till the light fell upon the pale features of the doctor.
“I'm murdered! I'm murdered!” was the faint exclamation of old Roach. “Hear me, these are my dying words, Kerry O'Leary murdered me.”
“Where are you wounded? where's the ball?” cried Mark, tearing open the coat and waistcoat in eager anxiety..
“I don't know, I don't know; it's inside bleeding I feel.”
“Nonsense, man, you have neither bruise nor scar about you; you're frightened, that's all. Come, Kerry, give a hand, and we'll help him in.”
But Kerry had fled; the idea of the gallows had just shot across his mind, and he never waited for any further disclosures about his victim; but deep in the recesses of a hay-loft he lay cowering in terror, and endeavouring to pray. Meanwhile Mark had taken the half lifeless body on his shoulder, and with the ease and indifference he would have bestowed upon an inanimate burden, coolly earned him into the parlour, and threw him upon a sofa.