“I don't doubt that,” said Poll, “but this I tell you, and this you may rely on, that hang he will, in spite of fate; he's doomed.”
“Great God!” exclaimed the now terrified girl, “you chill the blood in my veins—doomed!—what do you mean, Poll?”
“M'Clutchy will have him hanged in spite of all opposition—you know his power now—he can carry everything his own way.”
“I know,” replied the other, “that his influence is unfortunately great, no doubt, and cruelly is it exercised; but still, I don't know that he can carry everything his own way.”
“Do you know what packing a jury means?”
“Alas!” replied Mary, starting, and getting pale, “I do indeed, Poll. I have heard of it too frequently.”
“What, then, has the Vulture, the blood-hound, to do, but to get twelve Orangemen upon the jury, and the work is done?”
The unhappy girl burst into tears, and wrung her hands, for, however questionable the veracity of her present informant, she knew, from the unfortunate circumstances of the country, that such corrupt influences had too frequently been exerted.
“Don't you know,” added Poll, “that the thing can be done? Isn't the sheriff himself an Orangeman—isn't the sub-sheriff an Orangeman—isn't the grand jury Orange, aren't they all Orange through other?”
“I believe so, indeed,” said Mary, still weeping bitterly, “and there is, I fear, little or no hope.”