Irritated possibly by his husky voice, Phil's conduct grew more and more outrageous, drawing on him marks of indignant disapprobation from my Lord Carleton, a look of pained bewilderment from Lord Kilwarden. 'Was ever anything so indecent?' clamoured the members of the battalion, in loud whispers. 'Face to face with conviction, too! He had put himself beyond the pale of mercy. The brute ought to be scragged untried. He reeked of whisky, the besotted pig!' The odour of it, they vowed, reached their shocked nostrils across the court. In truth, he did comport himself after an intoxicated fashion. It was as much as his master could do to keep him in tolerable order. His legs were in constant motion. He sang and talked in a low tone, occasionally breaking into convulsive fits of laughter; grimacing and nodding his head to the witnesses, as one by one they sat on the table and swore away his life.
As the case proceeded--crushingly against the prisoners, who were proved beyond a doubt to have taken and administered the oath, to have worn green orders, and otherwise misbehaved themselves--his mood altered. He was getting over the madness of his drink. That was a mercy. Soon he would drop into a maudlin sleep, and his master might, unheedful of the monotonous and confused proceedings, take refuge from this mockery within himself until the verdict came. How dreary and how long was all this useless evidence! The case looked as if it would last for ever. What an array of witnesses--and what lies they told! At this rate it would be morning before the judges pronounced sentence. Already it was dark. Candles flared in rough iron sockets. The red judges loomed like lurid phantoms; the jury were haggard in the flickering smoke. Mr. Curran leaned back in his seat exhausted, his neck supported on his clasped hands--resolved to husband his strength for a great effort by-and-by.
Drunken, disgraceful Phil became quiet. Old Jug, whose keen vision naught escaped, suggested to an usher to let him have a chair. He sank into the seat, his chin buried in his breast. His face was blue (was it the effect of light?), his pupils dilated, his breathing stertorous. The air was sickeningly close. Sweat stood in drops upon his forehead. Could he be fainting? No. He rallied, and commenced muttering again.
The hours went by, and yet the farce continued. No jot of the informal formalities was omitted. Those who had resolved to hang the prisoners were evidently determined that there should be no lack of justification for it. Half the battalion had told their story. Curran listened, and said nothing (what was the use of cross-examining these men?) till he saw the big figure of Lieutenant Hepenstall advance. Then, turning to the judges, he grunted:
'They're not content with witnesses, my lords; they've brought in the Walking Gallows, to work them off at once! Sure, isn't it convanient and obleeging?'
Time moved on steadily. Terence was as upright and motionless as a statue. He had learned by this time who was sitting near. A small brown hand had fluttered into his, to tell by occult pressure its own sweet tale. Doreen was as still as he.
Drunken Phil tore open his shirt, gasping. How dense the air was! It was cruel to drag out the proceedings thus. His head was heavy--he could not hold it up; so, resting his fingers on the dock-rail, he laid his wet face on them. By degrees he sank into a snoring slumber, his limbs twitching now and then with a tremulous convulsion. The visage of old Jug was illumined with a mysterious satisfaction. Not one of his movements escaped her keen observation; she drank in every shiver. Presently she plucked her mistress by the robe, and, like a wild woman, whispered something in her ear. Madam Gillin, who, overpowered by heat, had been dozing, woke with a cry, and turned her affrighted gaze from Phil to her nurse and back again.
'Is it thrue, Jug--is it, by the Holy Mother?' she asked, in an awed whisper.
'Thrue 'tis, by mee sowl!' returned the other. 'He is a farrier, isn't he? And Crummell's curse is on the likes of him, isn't it? He begged the ould collough for a root, and she gave it; and, by St. Patrick, 'twas well done!'
In deep agitation Mrs. Gillin motioned Curran to her side. She saw it all. It was by her own order that Jug had visited the farrier. Farriers and colloughs are national foes. Phil--faithful fellow!--had begged the collough to exercise her skill in herbs on him. He could bear hanging--had thus far endured the lash. But torture may be pushed beyond our power of bearing. Rather than run a risk of betraying the master whom he worshipped, he had taken poison, and was dying.