“Now,” he proceeded, “this is how you are to act; your silence will give consent to any question that is asked of you. Are you willin' that these twelve men should thry Valentine M'Clutchy and his son for their lives; and that the sentence is to be put in execution on them?” To this there was a profound and ominous silence.
“Very well,” said he, “you agree to this. Now,” said he to the jurors, “find your sentence.”
The men met together, and whispered in the centre of the floor, for a few minutes—when he, who acted as foreman, turned towards O'Regan and said—“They're doomed.”
“To what death?”
“To be both shot.”
“Are you all satisfied with this sentence?”
Another silence as deep and ominous as before.
“Very well,” said he, “you all agree. As for the sentence, it is a just one; none of you need throuble yourselves any farther about that; you may take my word for it, that it will be carried into execution. Are you willing it should?”
For the third time an unbroken silence. “That's enough,” said he; “and now let us go quietly home.”
“It is not enough,” said a voice at the door; “let none depart without my permission, I command you;” and the words were no sooner uttered than the venerable Father Roche entered the house.