O'Regan was about to start off at the top of his speed; and Father Roche began to walk to and fro the old ruin, struck by the pale moonlight, as it fell through the gray stone windows, loopholes, and breaches of the walls, lighting up some old remnant of human ambition, or perhaps exposing a grinning skull, bleached by time and the elements into that pale white, which is perhaps the most ghastly exponent of death and the dead. At this moment, however, they were each in no small degree startled by the sound of human voices; and, to complete their astonishment, two figures approached the humble grave on which the dead body of Mary O'Regan lay stretched. On turning towards the moon they were both immediately recognized by the priest and O'Regan, who looked on in silence and wonder, and waited to hear, if possible, the object of their visit.
“I say again,” said Phil, “I say my jolly ph-foolosophy—eh foolosopher—that is to say, you deal in foolosophy—an ex-excellent trade for a fool—I say again, you have brought me the wrong way, or misled me somehow—upon my honor and reputation, Rimon, I rather think you're short of sense, my man. Come, I say, let us be off home again—what the devil did you bring me to a church-yard for?—eh?”
“Whisht,” said Raymond, “let us see—who have we here? Ah,” said he, stooping down and feeling the chill of death upon her features, “it is Mary O'Regan, and she's dead—dead!”
“Dead,” exclaimed Phil, starting, “curse you, Rimon, let us be off at full speed, I say—Gad, I'm in a nice pickle; and these pistols are of no use against any confounded ghost.”
On hearing that Phil carried pistols, O'Regan started, and had it been daylight, a fierce but exulting fire might have been seen to kindle in his eyes.
“What can have brought them here?” asked Father Roche; “I cannot understand their visit at such an hour to such a place as this.”
“A few minutes, sir, will make all clear, maybe.”
“And what brought poor Mary here to die, do you know?” inquired Raymond; “no you don't,” he replied, “but I will tell you—she came to die near poor White-head that she loved so much, and near Torley, and near poor Hugh himself, that the bloodhounds—”
“Damn my honor, Rimon, if I can stand this any longer—I'm off.”
“Hould!” said Raymond, with a shout whose echoes rang through the ruins; “you musn't go till you hear me out,” and on uttering the words he gripped him by the arm, and led him over to the dead body.