“I say amin to that,” replied Darby; “Oxis Doxis Glorioxis!--So far, that's right, if the blood of him's not an you. But there's one thing more to be done: will you walk over undher the eye of God, an' touch the corpse? Hould back, neighbors, an' let him come over alone: I an' Owen Reillaghan will stand here wid the lights, to see if the corpse bleeds.” “Give me, too, a light,” said M'Kenna's father; “my son must get fair play, anyway: must be a witness myself to it, an' will, too.” “It's but rasonable,” said Owen Reillaghan; “come over beside Darby an' myself: I'm willin' that your son should stand or fall by what'll happen.” Frank's father, with a taper in his hand, immediately went, with a pale face and trembling steps, to the place appointed for him beside the corpse, where he took his stand. When young M'Kenna heard Darby's last question he seemed as if seized by an inward spasm: the start which he gave, and his gaspings for breath, were visible to all present. Had he seen the spirit of the murdered man before him, his horror could not have been greater; for this ceremony had been considered a most decisive test in cases of suspicion of murder--an ordeal, indeed, to which few murderers wished to submit themselves. In addition to this we may observe, that Darby's knowledge of the young man's character was correct; with all his crimes he was weak-minded and superstitious. He stood silent for some time after the ordeal had been proposed to him; his hair became literally erect, with the dread of this formidable scrutiny, his cheeks turned white, and the cold perspiration fell from him in large drops. All his strength appeared to have departed from him; he stood, as if hesitating, and even energy necessary to stand seemed to be the result of an effort. “Remember,” said Darby, pulling out the large crucifix which was attached to his heads, “that the eye of God is upon you. If you've committed the murdher, thrimble; if not, Frank, you've little to fear in touchin' the corpse.” Frank had not uttered a word; but, leaning himself on the gun, he looked wildly around him, cast his eyes up to the stormy sky, then turned them with a dead glare upon the corpse and the crucifix. “Do you confiss the murdher?” said Darby. “Murdher!” rejoined Frank: “no! I confess no murdher: you villain, do you want to make me guilty;--do you want to make me guilty, you deep villain?” It seemed as if the current of his thoughts and feelings had taken a new direction, though it is probable that the excitement which appeared to be rising within him was only the courage of fear. “You all wish to find me guilty,” he added: “but I'll show you that I'm not guilty.”