“Here, where I am at present, assisting the magistrates to scour the country,--searching every cabin at Drumoologan,--draining ditches to discover the weapon, and arresting every man that killed a pig and got blood on his corduroys for the last fortnight.” “And where would _I_ be?” asked Keane. “Here too; exactly where you sit this moment, quietly waiting till the outcry was over. Nor need that make you impatient. I have said already there is neither wife, nor sister, nor brother, nor child to take up the pursuit. There are forty people in the great house yonder, and there would n't be four of them left two hours after it was known, nor one out of the four that would give himself the trouble of asking how it happened.” “An' them's _gentlemen!_,” said Keane, closing his lips and shaking his head sententiously. Linton arose; he did not over-fancy the turn of reflection Tom's remark implied: it looked too like the expression of a general condemnation of his class--at the very moment, too, when he was desirous of impressing him with the fullest trust and confidence in his own honor. “I believe it's safer to have nothin' to do with it,” muttered Keane. “As you please, friend,” replied Linton; “I never squeeze any man's conscience. _You_ know best what your own life is.” “Hard enough, that's what it is,” said the other, bitterly. “You can also make a guess what it will be in future, when you leave this.” A deep groan was all that he gave for answer. “For all that _I_ know, you may have many friends who 'll not see your wife and children begging along the roads, or sitting in a hole scooped out of a clay ditch, without food or fire, waiting for the fever to finish what famine has begun. You have n't far to seek for what I mean; about two hundred yards from that gate yonder there 's a group exactly like it.” “Ye 're a terrible man, that's the truth,” said Tom, as he wiped the big drops of perspiration from his forehead. “Be gorra, I never seed your like afore!” “I told you that I was a _determined_ man,” said Linton, sternly; “and I'm sorry to see that's not what I should say of _you_.” He moved a step or two as he spoke, and then turning carelessly back, added, “Leave that money for me at 'The house' this evening; I don't wish to carry gold about me on the roads here.” And with this negligent remark he departed. Linton sauntered carelessly away; nothing in his negligent air and carriage to show that he was not lounging to kill the weary hours of a winter's day. No sooner, however, had he turned an angle of the road than he entered the wood, and with cautious steps retraced his way, till he stood within a few paces of where Keane yet sat, still and motionless.