“Musha, I hope he isn't dead,” said Kerry, as he opened the wicket cautiously, and peeped out with a lantern. “Mister Cassidy--Mister James, get up now--it's only joking I was.--Holy Joseph! is he kilt?” and overcome by a sudden dread of having committed murder, Kerry stepped out, and approached the motionless figure before him. “By all that's good, I've done for the sheriff,” said he, as he stood over the body. “Oh! wirra, wirra! who'd think a few grains of shot would kill him.” “What's the matter here? who fired that shot?” said a deep voice, as Mark O'Donoghue appeared at Kerry's side, and snatching the lantern, held it down till the light fell upon the pale features of the doctor. “I'm murdered! I'm murdered!” was the faint exclamation of old Roach. “Hear me, these are my dying words, Kerry O'Leary murdered me.” “Where are you wounded? where's the ball?” cried Mark, tearing open the coat and waistcoat in eager anxiety.. “I don't know, I don't know; it's inside bleeding I feel.” “Nonsense, man, you have neither bruise nor scar about you; you're frightened, that's all. Come, Kerry, give a hand, and we'll help him in.” But Kerry had fled; the idea of the gallows had just shot across his mind, and he never waited for any further disclosures about his victim; but deep in the recesses of a hay-loft he lay cowering in terror, and endeavouring to pray. Meanwhile Mark had taken the half lifeless body on his shoulder, and with the ease and indifference he would have bestowed upon an inanimate burden, coolly earned him into the parlour, and threw him upon a sofa. CHAPTER XII. THE GLEN AT MIDNIGHT. “What have you got there, Mark?” called out the O'Donoghue, as the young man threw the still insensible figure of the Doctor upon the sofa. “Old Roach, of Killarney,” answered Mark sullenly. “That confounded fool, Kerry, must have been listening at the door there, to what we were saying, and took him for Cassidy, the sub-sheriff; he fired a charge of slugs at him--that's certain; but I don't think there's much mischief done.” As he spoke, he filled a goblet with wine, and without any waste of ceremony, poured it down the Doctor's throat. “You're nothing the worse, man,” added he, roughly; “you've given many a more dangerous dose yourself, I'll be bound, and people have survived it too.” “I'm better now,” said Roach, in a faint voice; “I feel something better; but may I never leave this spot if I don't prosecute that scoundrel, O'Leary. It was all malice--I can swear to that.” “Not a bit of it, Roach; Mark says the fellow mistook you for Cassidy.” “No, no--don't tell me that: he knew me well; but I foresaw it all. He filled my pony with water; I might as well be rolling a barrel before me, as try to drive him this morning. The rascal had a spite against me for giving him nothing; but he shall hang for it.” “Come, come, Roach, don't be angry; it's all past and over now; the fellow did it for the best.”