“No harm, mother, I trust; no harm—don't be frightened.”
The old man put his open hands to his temples, which he pressed bitterly, and with all his force, for nearly half a minute. He had, in truth, been alarmed into the very worst mood of his habitual vice, apprehension concerning his money; and felt that nothing, except a powerful effort, could succeed in drawing his attention to the scene which was passing before him.
“What,” said he; “what is it that's wrong wid Connor?”
“He must come to jail,” said one of the men, looking at him with surprise; “we have already stated the crime for which he stands committed.”
“To jail! Connor O'Donovan to jail!”
“It's too true, father; Bartle Flanagan has sworn that I burned Mr. O'Brien's haggard.”
“Connor, Connor,” said the old man, approaching him as he spoke, and putting his arms composedly about his neck, “Connor, my brave boy, my brave boy, it wasn't you did it; 'twas I did it,” he added, turning to the constables; “lave him, lave him wid her, an' take me in his place! Who would if I would not—who ought, I say—an' I'll do it—take me; I'll go in his place.”
Connor looked down upon the old man, and as he saw his heart rent, and his reason absolutely tottering, a sense of the singular and devoted affection which he had ever borne him, overcame him, and with a full heart he dashed away a tear from his eye, and pressed his father to his breast.
“Mother,” said he; “this will kill the old man; it will kill him!”
“Fardorougha, a hagur,” said Ha wife, feeling it necessary to sustain him as much as possible, “don't take it so much to heart, it won't signify—Connor's innocent, an' no harm will happen to him!”