“I don't know—but still there can't be any harm in it; sure it's betther that it should be doin' some good than hangin' up there idle, against the wall, such a night as this. Here, Dan, for the first time since I put it up wid my own hands, except to shake the dust off of it, I'm goin' to turn this big coat to some use. There,” he added, spreading it over them; “let it help to keep you warm to-night—for God knows, you want it, you an' them poor gorsoons. Your coverin' is but light, an' you may hear the downpowrin' of rain that's in it; an' the wind, too, is risin' fast, every minute—gettin' so strong, indeed, that I doubt it 'ill be a storm before it stops; an' Dan, if it 'udn't be too much, may be you'd not object to offer up one pather an' avy for the poor sowl of him that owned it, an' that was brought to his account so suddenly and so terribly. There,” he added, fixing it upon them; “it helps to keep you warm at any rate; an' it's surely betther to have it so employed than hangin' idle, as I said, against the wall.”
M'Gowan immediately sat up in the bed, and putting down his hands, removed the coat.
“We don't want it at all,” he replied; “take it away, Jerry—do, for heaven's sake. The night's not at all so cowld as you think, an' we'll keep one another warm enough wid-out it, never fear.”
“Troth you do want it,” said Sullivan; “for fareer gair, it's the light coverin' that's over you an' them, poor boys. Heighho, Dan, see what innocence is—poor things, they're sound already—an' may God pity them an' provide for them, or enable me to do it!” And as he looked down upon the sleeping lads, the tears came so abundantly to his eyes, that he was forced to wipe them away. “Keep the coat, Dan,” he added; “you do want it.”
“No,” replied the other. “The truth is, I couldn't sleep under it. I'm very timersome, an' a little thing frightens me.”
“Oh,” said Sullivan, “I didn't think of that: in troth, if you're timersome, it's more than the world b'lieves of you. Well, well—I'll hang it up again; so good night, an' a sound sleep to you, an' to every man that has a free conscience in the sight of God!”
No response was given to this prayer, and his words were followed by a deep and solemn silence, that was only broken occasionally by the heavy pattering of the descending rain, and the fitful gusts of the blast, as they rushed against the house, and sung wildly among the few trees by which it and the garden were enclosed.
Every one knows that a night of wind and storm, if not rising actually to a tempest or hurricane, is precisely that on which sleep is with its deepest influence upon men. Sullivan's family, on that which we are describing, were a proof of this; at least until about the hour of three o'clock, when they were startled by a cry for help, so loud and frightful, that in a moment he and the boys huddled on their dress, and hurried to the bed in which the prophet lay. In a minute or two they got a candle lit; and truly the appearance of the man was calculated to drive fear and alarm into their hearts. They found him sitting in the bed, with his eyes so wild and staring that they seemed straining out of their sockets. His hair was erect, and his mouth half open, and drawn back; while the perspiration poured from him in torrents. His hands were spread, and held up, with their palms outwards, as if in the act of pushing something back that seemed to approach him. “Help,” he shouted, “he is comin' on me—he will have me powerless in a minute. He is gaspin' now, as he—Stay back, stay back—here—here, help; it's the murdhered man—he's upon me. Oh!—Oh, God! he's comin' nearer and nearer. Help me—save me!”
Sullivan on holding the candle to his face, perceived that he was still asleep; and suspecting the nature of his dream, he awoke him at once. On seeing a portion of the family about him, he started again, and looked for a moment so completely aghast that he resembled horror personified.
“Who—what—what are you? Oh,” he exclaimed, recovering, and striving to compose himself, “ha—Good God! what a frightful drame I had. I thought I was murdherin' a man; murdherin' the”—he paused, and stared wildly about him.