The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1894-07-19

voice OF Donovan ROrke, as WIN
| simulated anguish and penitencc he
confessed himself as a murderer; the
victim was a man who he had waylaid
one evening at a certain place, and
shot him in the back, then thrown the
dead man and weapon into deep, dry
old well overgrown by thick bushes,
of which the assassin knew. His
motive was revenge, which he had
nursed for three years, and killed this
man because that he found out would
| best have it out of the spalpeen he
hated. since this one loved the dead
man-there Rorke had paused, and
! the priest. with blood growing ice
cold in an awful suspicion. was creep
| ing over him, asked sternly where was
the scene of the crime? who was the
murdered man? Then there had
come low. jeering laugh through the
grating,
Sure thin, your riverence's own
brother, Terence and now We know it,
but under the seal of confession
father, so We can't inform on me-"
Too true was the maddening taunt-
| too perfect and secure the cruelty dew
ilish revenge; and well both murderer
and priest knew that the former
must go free for all the latter
could do: the canon is absolute
the sacred seal inviolate of that
told to the priest in confession,
and the assassin of Terence O'Brien
must go free in the full knowledge of
the living brother-which was the very
revenge BOrke meant, and now glOated
over He had not told the where
abouts of the crime either, lest posi-
bly, some clue might be got from that
1t might possibly, the priest thought,
when he could think at all calmly-be
open to question whether economically
such a confession. made not in pepi-
tence but avowedly in revenge. a bias
phemy of the sacrament surely, was a
true confession at all, but that of
course only his ecclesiastical superiors
could consider, and even then how was
poor parish priest buried in a remote
district to get at such distances very
| quickly? Meanwhile the man could
escape.
| But Rorke did not leave the village
at once-not he; he hung about just
for the devilish pleasure of constantly
throwing himself in the priests way,
with leer and grin of low triumph.
and after mocking top o the morn
ing to your reverence. sure it's ill we're
looking
Father O Brien. stern and pale, never
took the slightest notice of the fell
low, who was more often at the whis-
ky shop than anywhere else: and
looked upon askance by most of the
villagers as rather a hang-dOg spal-
peen-a stranger to whom no one took.
Two or three weeks from that terri
BILE Friday passed in this way, and then
one afternoon farmer at a distance
sent for Father Patrick to come over
his son was very i'll. Of course. the
rriest went at once. borrowing from
one of his flock who actually possessed
such riches, an old but strong mare,
and little low built cart-a primitive
equipage bOasting even for the reins
only two very long pieces of rope which
coiled down in the cart.
81 mayn't be back tonight, Norah. =
IutT dlTlck JOlu Jlle OlU UdHle VINO
waited on him. and off he drove with
the small boy who had brought the
message. Nor was the good priest
back that night for the farmer would
not hear of it, and it was not till the
next morning, therefore, that Father
O'Brien started off again for jog
trot home over fifteen miles of rough
roads-so called by courtesy
our American cousins would have more
correctly termed them, tor most of the
way.
Well go round by the crossroads,
acushla macree," said Father Patrick,
STOPPING forwards to pat the mare.
It's a tritie longer, but it's better
road, and when we're there we're only
five miles from home. honey
The old mare doubtless quite under
stood, and logged on contentedly
enough, till presently the crossroads,
in a scattered sort of wooding. We're
reached The priest pulled up where
the four roads met, and got down.
Sure. Aileen. it's a rest and bit of
grass that yell have here" said he.
There it is, old honey, as fresh as a
daisy, bedad."
Whilst he was talking to the mare,
rough head. guiltless of even cor
been" was lifted from behind a mass