They accordingly withdrew, the woman having first left a lit rush light candle at his bed-side, as she knew the ceremony required.
The man's strength was wasting fast, and his voice sinking rapidly, but on the other hand he was calm and rational, a circumstance which relieved the priest's mind very much. As is usual, having put a stole about his neck, he first heard his confession, earnestly exhorted him to repentance, and soothed and comforted him with all those promises and consolations which are held out to repentant sinners. He then administered the Extreme Unction; which being over, the ceremony, and a solemn one it must be considered, was concluded. On this occasion, however, his death-bed consolations did not end here. There are in the Roman Catholic Church prayers for the dying, many of them replete with the fervor of Christian faith, and calculated to raise the soul to the hopes of immortality. These the priest read in a slow manner, so as that the dying man could easily accompany him, which he did with his hands clasped, upon his breast, and his eyes closed, unless when he raised them occasionally to heaven. He then exhorted him with an anxiety for his salvation which transcended all earthly and temporal considerations, prayed with him and for him, whilst the tears streamed in torrents down his cheeks. Nor was the spirit of his holy mission lost; the penitent man's face assumed a placid and serene expression; the light of immortal hope beamed upon it; and raising his eyes and his feeble arms to heaven, he uttered several ejaculations in a tone of voice too low to be heard. At length he exclaimed aloud, “thanks to the Almighty that I did not commit this murder as I intended! I found it done to my hand; but I don't know who did it, as I am to meet my God!” The words were pronounced with difficulty; indeed they were scarcely uttered, when his arms fell lifelessly, as it were, by his side—they were again suddenly drawn up, however, as if by a convulsive motion, and the priest saw that the agonies of death were about to commence; still, it was easy to perceive that the man was collected and rational.
It was now, however, that a scene took place, which could not, we imagine, be witnessed out of distracted and unhappy Ireland. Raymond, who appeared to dread the approach of those whom he termed M'Clutchy's blood-hounds, no sooner saw that the religious rites were concluded, than he ran out to reconnoitre. In a moment, however, he returned a picture of terror, and dragging the woman to the door, pointed to a declivity below the house, exclaiming—
“See, Mary, see—they're gallopin'.” The dying man seemed conscious of what was said, for the groan he gave was wild and startling; his wife dropped on her knees at the door, where she could watch her husband and those who approached, and clasping her hands, exclaimed, “To your mercy, O Lord of heaven, to your mercy take him, before he falls into their hands, that will show him none!” She then bestowed upon him a look full of an impatient agony, which no language could describe; her eyes had already become wild and piercing—her cheek flushed—and her frame animated with a spirit that seemed to partake at once of terror, intense hatred, and something like frenzy.
“They are gallopin'! they are gallopin'!” she said, “and they will find life in him!” She then wrung her hands, but shed not a tear—“speed, Hugh,” she said, “speed, speed, husband of my heart—the arms of God are they not open for you, and why do you stay?” These sentiments, we should have informed our readers, were uttered, or rather chaunted in a recitative of sorrow, in Irish; Irish being the language in which the peasantry who happen to speak both it and English, always express themselves when more than usually excited. “The sacred oil of salvation is upon you—the sacrament of peace and forgiveness has lightened your soul—the breath of mercy is the breath you're breathin'—the hope of Jesus is in your heart, and the intercession of his blessed mother, she that knew sorrow herself, is before you! Then, light of my heart, the arms of God are they not open for you, and why do you stay here?”
“Nearer—nearer,” she exclaimed, “they are nearer—whippin' and spurrin' their horses! Hugh O'Regan, that was the sun of my life, and of my heart, and ever without a cloud, hasten to the God of mercy! Oh, surely, you will not blame your own Mary that was your lovin' wife—and the treasure of your young and manly heart, for wishin' to see you taken from her eyes—and for wishing to see the eyes that,never looked upon us all but with love and kindness, closed on us forever. Oh,” said she, putting her hands to her forehead, “an' is it—is it come to this—that I that was dearer to him than his own life a thousand times, should now be glad to see him die—be glad to see him die! Oh! they are here,” she shrieked, “before the door—you may hear their horses' feet! Hugh O'Regan,” and her voice became louder and more energetic—“the white-skinned—the fair of hair, the strong of hand, and the true of heart—as you ever loved me that was once your happy bride—as you ever loved the religion of our holy church—as you hope for happiness and mercy, hasten from me—from our orphan—from all—oh, hasten to the arms of your God!”
During this scene there was a solemn silence in the house, the priest and Harman having both been struck mute at the solemnity of the scene.
“They are here—they are here!” she screamed. “Oh, sun of my heart, think not now of me, nor of the children of your love, for we will follow you in time—but think of the happy country you're going to,—to live in the sunshine of heaven, among saints and angels for ever! Oh, sun of my heart, think too of what you lave behind you! What is it? Oh! what is it to you—but poverty, and misery, and hardship—the cowld cabin and the damp bed—the frost of the sky—the frown of power, and the scourge of law—all this, oh, right hand of my affection, with the hard labor and the scanty food, do you fly from! Sure we had no friend in this world to protect or defend us against them that, would trample us under their feet! No friend for us because we are poor, and no friend for our religion because it is despised. Then hasten, hasten, O light of my heart—and take refuge in the mercy of your God!”