“That news is about our son?”
“It is,” replied O'Brien, “and it's good; his sentence is changed, and he is not to die.”
“Not to die!” shrieked the old man, starting up, and clapping his hands frantically—“not to die! our son—Connor, Connor—not to be hanged—not to be hanged! Did you say that, son of O'Brien Buie, did you—did you?”
“I did,” replied the other; “he will not suffer.”
“Now that's God,” ejaculated Fardorougha, wildly; “that's God an' his mother's prayers. Boys,” he shrieked, “come here; come here, Biddy Nulty, come her; Connor's not to die; he won't suffer—he won't suffer!”
He was rushing wildly to the door, but Honor placed herself before him, and said, in that voice of calmness which is uniformly that of authority and power:
“Fardorougha, dear, calm yourself. If this is God's work, as you say, why not resave it as comm' from God? It's upon your two knees you ought to drop, an'—Saver above, what's the matther wid him? He's off; keep him up. Oh, God bless you! that's it, avourneen; jist place him on the chair there fornext the door, where he can have air. Here, dear,” said she to Biddy Nulty, who, on hearing herself called by her master, had come in from another room; “get some feathers, Biddy, till we burn them undher his nose; but first fetch a jug of cold water.”
On looking at the face of the miser, O'Brien started, as indeed well he might, at such a pallid, worn, and death—like countenance; why, thought he to himself, surely this must be death, and the old man's cares, and sorrows, and hopes, are all passed forever.
Honor now bathed his face, and wet his lips with water, and as she sprinkled and rubbed back the gray hair from his emaciate! temples, there might be read there an expression of singular wildness that resembles the wreck produced by insanity.
“He looks ill,” observed O'Brien, who actually thought him dead; “but I hope it won't signify.”