“Oh, murther!” exclaimed Tom. “I thought I 'd have you in the 'Coort,' just to look up at you from time to time, to give me courage and make me feel bowld; for it does give me courage when I see you so calm and so azy, without as much as a tremble in your voice.” “It is not likely that I shall be there,” rejoined Linton; “but mind, if I be, that you do _not_ direct your eyes towards me. Remember, that every look you give, every gesture you make, will be watched and noted.” “I wondher how I'll get through it!” exclaimed the other, sorrowfully. “You'll get through it admirably, man, if you'll only think that you are not the person in peril. It is your conscience alone can bring you into any danger.” “Well, I hope so! with the help of--” The fellow stopped short, and a red flush of shame spread itself over features which in a whole life long had never felt a blush. “I 'd like to be able to give you something better than this, Tom,” said Linton, as he placed a handful of loose silver in the other's palm, “but it is safer for the present that you should not be seen with much money.” “I owe more than this at Mark Shea's 'public,'” said Tom, looking discontentedly at the money. “And why should you owe it?” said Linton, bitterly. “What is there in your circumstances to warrant debts of this kind?” “Did n't I earn it--tell me that?” asked the ruffian, with a savage earnestness. “I see that you are hopeless,” said Linton, turning away in disgust. “Take your own course, and see where it will lead you.” “No--you mean where it will lead us,” said the fellow, insolently. “What! do you dare to threaten me? Now, once for all, let this have an end. I have hitherto treated you with candor and with kindness. If you fancy that my hate can be more profitable than my friendship, say so, and before one hour passes over your head I 'll have you committed to prison as an accessory to the murder.” “I ax your pardon humbly--I did n't mean to anger yer Honer,” said the other, in a servile tone. “I'll do everything you bid me--and sure you know best what ought to be done.” “Then let us part good friends,” said Linton, holding out his hand towards him. “I see a boat coming over the lake which will drop me at Killaloe; we must not be seen together--so good-bye, Tom, good-bye.” “Good-bye, and a safe journey to yer Honer,” said Tom, as, touching his hat respectfully, he retired into the wood. The boat which Linton descried was still above a mile from the shore, and he sat down upon a stone to await its coming. Beautiful as that placid lake was, with its background of bold mountains, its scattered islands, and its jutting promontories, he had no eye for these, but followed with a peering glance the direction in which Tom Keane had departed.