“No,” interrupted Fardorougha; “my mind's made up; a word against him will never come from my lips, not for priest or friar. I'd die widout the saykerment sooner.”
“This is trifling with the court,” said the judge, assuming an air of severity, which, however, he did not feel. “We shall be forced to commit you to prison unless you give evidence.”
“My lord,” said Fardorougha, meekly, but firmly, “I am willin' to go to prison—I am willin' to die with him, if he is to die, but I neither can nor will open my lips against him. If I thought him guilty I might; but I know he is innocent—my heart knows it; an' am I to back the villain that's strivin' to swear his life away? No, Connor avourneen, whatever they do to you, your father will have no hand in it.”
The court, in fact, were perplexed in the extreme. The old man was not only firm, from motives of strong attachment, but intractable from an habitual narrowness of thought, which prevented him from taking that comprehensive view of justice and judicial authority which might overcome the repugnance of men less obstinate from ignorance of legal usages.
“I ask you for the last time,” said the judge, “will you give your evidence? because, if you refuse, the court will feel bound to send you to prison.”
“God bless you, my lord! that's a relief to my heart. Anything, anything, but to say a word against a boy that, since the day he was born, never vexed either his mother or myself. If he gets over this, I have much to make up to him; for, indeed, I wasn't the father to him that I ought. Avick machree, now I feel it, may be whin it's too late.”
These words affected all who heard them, many even to tears.
“I have no remedy,” observed the judge. “Tipstaff, take away the witness to prison. It is painful to me,” he added, in a broken voice, “to feel compelled thus to punish you for an act which, however I may respect the motives that dictate it, I cannot overlook. The ends of justice cannot be frustrated.”
“Mylord,” exclaimed the prisoner, “don't punish the old man for refusing to speak against me. His love for me is so strong that I know he couldn't do it. I will state the truth myself, but spare him. I did not sleep in my own bed on the night Mr. O' Brien's haggard was burned, nor on the night before it. I slept in my father's barn, with Flanagan; both times at his own request but I did not then suspect his design in asking me.”
“This admission, though creditable to your affection and filial duty, was indiscreet,” observed the judge. “Whatever you think might be serviceable, suggest to your attorney, who can communicate it to your counsel.”