—Fergus Reilly begins to Contravene the Red Rapparee

After Malcomson quitted him, the squire, with his golden-headed cane, went to saunter about his beautiful grounds and his noble demesne, proud, certainly, of his property, nor insensible to the beautiful scenery which it presented from so many points of observation. He had not been long here when a poor-looking peasant, dressed in shabby frieze, approached him at as fast a pace as he could accomplish; and the squire, after looking at him, exclaimed, in an angry tone:

“Well, you rascal, what the devil brings you here?”

The man stood for a little, and seemed so much exhausted and out of breath that he could not speak.

“I say, you unfortunate old vagrant,” repeated the squire, “what brought you here?”

“It is a case of either life or death, sir,” replied the poor peasant.

“Why,” said the squire, “what crime did you commit? Or, perhaps, you broke prison, and are flying from the officers of justice; eh! is that it? And you come to ask a magistrate to protect you!”

“I am flying from the agents of persecution, sir, and know not where to hide my head in order to avoid them.”

The hard-pressed but amiable priest—for such he was—adopted this language of truth, because he knew the squire\'s character, and felt that it would serve him more effectually than if he had attempted to conceal his profession. “I am a Catholic priest, sir, and felt from bitter experience that this disguise was necessary to the preservation of my life. I throw myself upon your honor and generosity, for although hasty, sir, you are reported to have a good and kind heart.”

“You are disposed to place confidence in me, then?”

“I am, sir; my being before you now, and putting myself in your power, is a proof of it.”

“Who are pursuing you? Sir Robert Whitecraft—eh?”

“No, sir, Captain Smellpriest and his gang.”

“Ay, out of the frying pan into the fire; although I don\'t know that, either. They say Smellpriest can do a generous thing sometimes—but the other, when priest-hunting, never. What\'s your name?”

“I\'ll tell you, without hesitation, sir—Macguire; I\'m of the Macguires of Fermanagh.”

“Ay! ay! why, then, you have good blood in your veins. But what offence were you guilty of that you—but I need not ask; it is enough, in the present state of the laws, that you are a Catholic priest. In the meantime, are you aware that I myself transported a Catholic priest, and that he would have swung only for my daughter, who went to the viceroy, and, with much difficulty, got his sentence commuted to transportation for life? I myself had already tried it, and failed; but she succeeded, God bless her!”

“Yes, God bless her!” replied the priest, “she succeeded, and her fame has gone far and near, in consequence; yes, may God of his mercy bless and guard her from all evil!” and as the poor hunted priest spoke, the tears came to his eyes. This symptom of respect and affection, prompted by the generous and heroic conduct of the far-famed Cooleen Bawn, touched her father, and saved the priest.

“Well,” said he, after musing for a while, “so you say Smellpriest is after you?”

“He is, sir; they saw me at a distance, across the country, scrambling over the park wall, and indeed I was near falling into their hands by the difficulty I had in getting over it.”

“Well, come,” replied the squire, “since you have had the courage to place confidence in me, I won\'t abuse it; come along, I will both conceal and protect you. I presume there is little time to be lost, for those priest hounds will be apt to ride round to the entrance gate, which I will desire the porter to close and lock, and then leave the lodge.”

On their way home he did so, and ordered the porter up to the house. The magnificent avenue was a serpentine one, and our friends had barely time to get out of sight of the lodge, by a turn in it, when they heard the voices of the pursuers, hallooing for the porter, and thundering at the gate.

“Ay, thunder away, only don\'t injure my gate, Smellpriest, or I\'ll make you replace it; bawl yourselves hoarse—you are on the wrong side for once!”

When they were approaching the hall-door, which generally lay open—

“Confound me,” said the squire, “if I know what to do with you; I trust in God I won\'t get into odium by this. At all events, let us steal upstairs as quietly as we can, and, if possible, without any one seeing us.”

To the necessity of this the priest assented, and they had reached the first landing of the staircase when out popped right in their teeth two housemaids each with brush in hand. Now it instantly occurred to the squire that in this unlucky crisis bribery was the safest resource. He accordingly addressed them:

“Come here, you jades, don\'t say a word about this man\'s presence here—don\'t breathe it; here\'s five shillings apiece for you, and let one of you go and bring me up, secretly, the key of the green-room in the garret; it has not been opened for some time. Be quick now; or stay, desire Lanigan to fetch it, and refreshment also; there\'s cold venison and roast beef, and a bottle of wine; tell Lanigan I\'m going to lunch, and to lay the table in my study. Lanigan can be depended on,” he added, after the chambermaid had gone, “for when I concealed another priest here once, he was entrusted with the secret, and was faithful.”

Now it so happened that one of those maids, who was a bitter Protestant, at once recognized Father Maguire, notwithstanding his disguise. She had been a servant for four or five years in the house of a wealthy farmer who lived adjoining him, and with whom he had been in the habit of frequently dining when no danger was to be apprehended from the operation of the laws. Indeed, she and Malcomson, the gardener, were the only two individuals in the squire\'s establishment who were not Catholics. Malcomson was a manoeuvrer, and, as is pretty usual with individuals of his class and country, he looked upon “Papistry” as an abomination that ought to be removed from the land. Still, he was cautious and shrewd, and seldom or never permitted those opinions to interfere with or obstruct his own interests. Be this is it may, the secret was not long kept. Esther Wilson impeached her master\'s loyalty, and she herself was indignantly assailed for her treachery by Molly Finigan, who hoped in her soul that her master and young mistress would both die in the true Church yet.

The whole kitchen was in a buzz; in fact, a regular scene ensued. Every one spoke, except Lanigan, who, from former experience, understood the case perfectly; but, as for Malcomson, whose zeal on this occasion certainly got the better of his discretion, he seemed thunderstruck.

“Eh, sirs! did ony one ever hear the like o\' this?—to hide a rebel priest frae the offended laws! But it canna be that this puir man is athegether right in his head. Lord ha\'e a care o\' us! the man surely must be demented, or he wouldna venture to bring such a person into his ain house—into the vara house. I think, Maisther Lanigan, it wad be just a precious bit o\' service to religion and our laws to gang and tell the next magistrate. Gude guide us! what an example he is settin\' to his loyal neighbors, and his hail connections! That ever we should see the like o\' this waefu\' backsliding at his years! Lord ha\'e a care o\' us, I say aince mair.”

“Oh, but there\'s more to come,” said one of them, for, in the turmoil produced by this shocking intelligence, they had forgotten to deliver the message to Lanigan.

“Mr. Lanigan,” said Esther, and her breath was checked by a hysteric hiccup, “Mr. Lanigan, you are to bring up the key of the green-room, and plenty of venison, roast beef, and a bottle of wine! There!”

“Baal, Maisther Lanigan, I winna stay langer under this roof; it\'s nae cannie; I\'ll e\'en gang out, and ha\'e some nonsense clavers wi\' yon queer auld carl i\' the gerden. The Lord ha\'e a eare o\' us!—what will the warld come to next!”

He accordingly repaired to the garden, where the first thing he did was to give a fearful account to Reilly of their master\'s political profligacy. The latter felt surprised, but not at all at Malcomson\'s narrative. The fact was, he knew the exact circumstances of the case, because he knew the squire\'s character, which was sometimes good, and sometimes the reverse—just according to the humor he might be in: and in reply observed to Malcomson, that—

“As his honor done a great dale o\' good! to the poor o\' the counthry, I think it wouldn\'t be daicent in us, Misther Malcomson, to go for to publish this generous act to the poor priesht; if he is wrong, let us lave him to Gad, shir.”

“Ou ay, weel I dinna but you\'re richt; the mair that we won\'t hae to answer for his transgressions; sae e\'en let every herring hang by its ain tail.”

In the meantime, Lanigan, who understood the affair well enough, addressed the audience in the kitchen to the following effect:

“Now,” said he, “what a devil of a hubbub you all make about nothing! Pray, young lady,” addressing Esther Wilson, who alone had divulged the circumstance, “did his honor desire you to keep what you seen saicret?”

“He did, cook, he did,” replied Esther; “and gave us money not to speak about it, which is a proof of his guilt.”

“And the first thing you did was to blaze it to the whole kitchen! I\'ll tell you what it is now—if he ever hears that you breathed a syllable of it to mortal man, you won\'t be under his roof two hours.”

“Oh, but, surely, cook—”

“Oh, but, surely, madam,” replied Lanigan, “you talk of what you don\'t understand; his honor knows very well what he\'s about, mid has authority for it.”

This sobered her to some purpose; and Lanigan proceeded to execute his master\'s orders.

It is true Miss Esther and Malcomson were now silent, for their own sakes; but it did not remove their indignation; so far from that, Lanigan himself came in for a share of it, and was secretly looked upon in the light of the squire\'s confidant in the transaction.

Whilst matters were in this position, the Red Rapparee began gradually to lose the confidence of his unscrupulous employer. He had promised that worthy gentleman to betray his former gang, and deliver them up to justice, in requital for the protection which he received from him. This he would certainly have done, were it not for Fergus, who, happening to meet one of them a day or two after the Rapparee had taken service with Whitecraft upon the aforesaid condition,—informed the robber of that fact, and advised him, if he wished to provide for his own safety and that of his companions, to desire them forthwith to leave the country, and, if possible, the kingdom. They accordingly took the hint; some of them retired to distant and remote places, and others went beyond seas for their security. The promise, therefore, which the Rapparee had made to the baronet as a proof of gratitude for his protection, he now found himself incapable of fulfilling, in consequence of the dispersion and disappearance of his band. When he stated this fact to Sir Robert, he gained little credit from him; and the consequence was that his patron felt disposed to think that he was not a man to be depended on. Still, what he had advanced in his own defence might be true; and although his confidence in him was shaken, he resolved to maintain him yet in his service, and that for two reasons—one of which was, that by having him under his eye, and within his grasp, he could pounce upon him at any moment; the other was, that, as he knew, from the previous shifts and necessities of his own lawless life, all those dens and recesses and caverns to which the Catholic priesthood, and a good number of the people, were obliged to fly and conceal themselves, he must necessarily be a useful guide to him as a priest-hunter. It is true he assured him that he had procured his pardon from Government, principally, he said, in consequence of his own influence, and because, in all his robberies, it had not been known that he ever took away human life. In general, however, this was the policy of the Rapparees, unless when they identified themselves with political contests and outrages, and on those occasions they were savage and cruel as fiends. In simple robbery on the king\'s highway, or in burglaries in houses, they seldom, almost never, committed murder, unless when resisted, and in defence of their lives. On the contrary, they were quite gallant to females, whom they treated with a kind of rude courtesy, not unfrequently returning the lady of the house her gold watch—but this only on occasions when they had secured a large booty of plate and money. The Threshers of 1805-6 and \'7, so far as cruelty goes, were a thousand times worse; for they spared neither man nor woman in their infamous and nocturnal visits; and it is enough to say, besides, that their cowardice was equal to their cruelty. It has been proved, at special commissions held about those periods, that four or five men, with red coats on them, have made between two or three hundred of the miscreants run for their lives, and they tolerably well-armed. Whether Sir Robert\'s account of the Rapparee\'s pardon was true or false will appear in due time; for the truth is, that Whitecraft was one of those men who, in consequence of his staunch loyalty and burning zeal in carrying out the inhuman measures of the then Government, was permitted with impunity to run into a licentiousness of action, as a useful public man, which no modern government would, or dare, permit. At the period of which we write, there was no press, so to speak, in Ireland, and consequently no opportunity of at once bringing the acts of the Irish Government, or of public men, to the test of public opinion. Such men, therefore, as Whitecraft, looked upon themselves as invested with irresponsible power; and almost in every instance their conduct was approved of, recognized, and, in general, rewarded by the Government of the day. The Beresford family enjoyed something like this unenviable privilege, during the rebellion of \'98, and for some time afterwards. We have alluded to Mrs. Oxley, the sheriffs, fat wife; whether fortunately or unfortunately for the poor sheriff, who had some generous touches of character about him, it so happened, at this period of our narrative she popped off one day, in a fit of apoplexy, and he found himself a widower. Now, our acquaintance, Fergus Reilly, who was as deeply disguised as our hero, had made his mind up, if possible, to bring the Rapparee into trouble. This man had led his patron to several places where it was likely that the persecuted priests might be found; and, for this reason, Fergus knew that he was serious in his object to betray them. This unnatural treachery of the robber envenomed his heart against him, and he resolved to run a risk in watching his motions. He had no earthly doubt that it was he who robbed the sheriff. He knew, from furtive observations, as well as from general report, that a discreditable intimacy existed between him and Mary Mahon. This woman\'s little house was very convenient to that of Whitecraft, to whom she was very useful in a certain capacity. She had now given up her trade of fortune-telling—a trade which, at that period, in consequence of the ignorance of the people, was very general in Ireland. She was now more beneficially employed. Fergus, therefore, confident in his disguise, resolved upon a bold and hazardous stroke. He began to apprehend that if ever Tom Steeple, fool though he was, kept too much about the haunts and resorts of the Rapparee, that cunning scoundrel, who was an adept in all the various schemes and forms of detection, might take the alarm, and, aided probably by Whitecraft, make his escape out of the country. At best, the fool could only assure him of his whereabouts; but he felt it necessary, in addition to this, to procure, if the matter were possible, such evidence of his guilt as might render his conviction of the robbery of the sheriff complete and certain. One evening a wretched-looking old man, repeating his prayers, with beads in hand, entered her cottage, which consisted of two rooms and a kitchen; and after having presented himself, and put on his hat—for we need scarcely say that no Catholic ever prays covered—he asked lodging in Irish, for the night, and at this time it was dusk.

“Well, good man,” she replied, “you can have lodgings here for this night. God forbid I\'d put a poor wandherer out, an\' it nearly dark.”

Fergus stared at her as if he did not understand what she said; she, however, could speak Irish right well, and asked him in that language if he could speak no English—“Wuil Bearlha agud?” (Have you English?)

“Ha neil foccal vaun Bearlha agum.” (I haven\'t one word of English.)

“Well,” said she, proceeding with the following short conversation in Irish, “you can sleep here, and I will bring you in a wap o\' straw from the garden, when I have it to feed my cow, which his honor, Sir Robert, gives me grass for; he would be a very kind man if he was a little more generous—ha! ha! ha!”

“Ay, but doesn\'t he hunt an\' hang, an\' transport our priests?”

“Why, indeed, I believe he doesn\'t like a bone in a priest\'s body; but then he\'s of a different religion—and it isn\'t for you or me to construe him after our own way.”

“Well, well,” said Fergus, “it isn\'t him I\'m thinking of; but if I had a mouthful or two of something to ait I\'d go to sleep—for dear knows I\'m tired and hungry.”

“Why, then, of coorse you\'ll have something to ait, poor man, and while you\'re eatin\' it I\'ll fetch in a good bunch of straw, and make a comfortable shake-down for you.”

“God mark you to grace, avourneen!”

She then furnished him with plenty of oaten bread and mixed milk, and while he was helping himself she brought in a large launch of straw, which she shook out and settled for him.

“I see,” said she, “that you have your own blankets.”

“I have, acushla. Cheerna, but this is darlin\' bread! Arra was this baked upon a griddle or against the muddhia arran?”*.

     * The muddhia arran was a forked branch, cut from a tree,
     and shaped exactly like a letter A—with a small stick
     behind to support it. A piece of hoop iron was nailed to
     it at the bottom, on which the cake rested—not
     horizontally, but opposite the fire. When one side was done
     the other was turned, and thus it was baked.

“A griddle! Why, then, is it the likes o\' me would have a griddle? that indeed! No; but, any how, sure a griddle only scalds the bread; but you\'ll find that this is not too much done; bekaise you know the ould proverb, \'a raw dad makes a fat lad.\'”

“Troth,” replied Fergus, “it\'s good bread, and fills the boast** of a man\'s body; but now that I\'ve made a good supper, I\'ll throw myself on the straw, for I feel as if my eyelids had a millstone apiece upon them. I never shtrip at night, but just throws my blanket over me, an\' sleeps like a top. Glory be to God! Oh, then, there\'s nothing like the health ma\'am: may God spare it to us! Amin, this night!”

     ** Boast—a figurative term, taken from a braggadocio or
     boaster; it applies to any thing that is hollow or
     deceitful: for instance, when some potatoes that grow
     unusually large are cut in two, an empty space is found in
     the centra, and that potato is termed boast, or empty.

He accordingly threw himself on the shakedown, and in a short time, as was evident by his snoring, fell into a profound sleep.

This was an experiment, though a hazardous one, as we have said; but so far it was successful. In the course of half an hour the Red Rapparee came in, dressed in his uniform. On looking about him he exclaimed, with an oath,

“Who the hell is here?”

“Why,” replied Mary Mahon, “a poor ould man that axed for charity an\' lodgin\' for the night.”

“And why did you give it to him?”

“Bekaise my charity to him may take away some of my sins.”

“Some of your devils!” replied the savage, “and I think you have enough of them about you. Didn\'t you know I was to come here to-night, as I do almost every night, for an hour or two?”

“You was drinkin\',” she replied, “and you\'re drunk.”

“I am drunk, and I will be drunk as often as I can. It\'s a good man\'s case. Why did you give a lodgin\' to this ould vagabone?”

“I tould you the raison,” she replied; “but you needn\'t care about him, for there\'s not a word of English in his cheek.”

“Faith, but he may have something in his purse, for all that. Is he ould?”

“A poor ould man.”

“So much the betther; be the livin\' I\'ll try whether he has any ould coins about him. Many a time—no, I don\'t say many a time—but twic\'t I did it, and found it well worth my while, too. Some of these ould scamers lie wid a purse o\' goolden guineas under their head, and won\'t confess it till the last moment. Who knows what this ould lad may have about him? I\'ll thry anyhow,” said the drunken ruffian; “It\'s not aisy to give up an ould custom, Molly—the sheriff, my darlin\', for that. I aised him of his fines, and was near strikin\' a double blow—I secured his pocket-book, and made a good attempt to hang Willy Reilly for the robbery into the bargain. Now, hang it, Molly, didn\'t I look a gentleman in his\' clothes, shoes, silver buckles, and all; wasn\'t it well we secured them before the house was burned? Here,” he added, “take a sneeshin of this,” pulling at the same time a pint bottle of whiskey out of his pocket; “it\'ll rise your spirits, an\' I\'ll see what cash this ould codger has about him; an\', by the way, how the devil do we know that he doesn\'t understand every word we say. Suppose, now—(hiccup)—that he heard me say I robbed the sheriff, wouldn\'t I be in a nice pickle? But, tell me, can you get no trace of Reilly?”

“Devil a trace; they say he has left the country.”

“If I had what that scoundrel has promised me for findin\' him out or securin\' him—here\'s—here\'s—here\'s to you—I say, if I had, you and I would”—Here he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder, as much as to say they would try another climate.

“And now,” he proceeded, “for a search on the shake-down. Who knows but the ould fellow has the yellow boys (guineas) about him? “—and he was proceeding to search Fergus, when Mary flew at him like a tigress.

“Stop, you cowardly robber!” she exclaimed; “would you bring down the curse and the vengeance of God upon both of us. We have enough and too much to answer for, let alone to rob the ould an\' the poor.”

“Be aisy now,” said he, “I\'ll make the search; sure I\'m undher the scoundrel Whitecraft\'s protection.”

“Yes, you are, and you\'re undher my protection too; and I tell you, if you lay a hand upon him it\'ll be worse for you.”

“What—what do you mane?”

“It\'s no matther what I mane; find it out.”

“How do I know but he has heard us?”

We must now observe that Fergus\'s style of sleeping was admirably adapted for his purpose. It was not accompanied by a loud and unbroken snore; on the contrary, after it had risen to the highest and most disagreeable intonations, it stopped short, with a loud and indescribable backsnort in his nose, and then, after a lull of some length, during which he groaned and muttered to himself, he again resumed his sternutations in a manner so natural as would have imposed upon Satan himself, if he had been present, as there is little doubt he was, though not exactly visible to the eyes of his two precious agents.

“Listen to that,” replied the woman; “do you think, now, he\'s not asleep? and even if he was sitting at the fire beside us, devil a syllable we said he could understand. I spoke to him in English when he came in, but he didn\'t know a word I said.”

“Well, then, let the ould fellow sleep away; I won\'t touch him.”

“Why, now, that\'s a good boy; go home to your barracks, and take a good sleep yourself.”

“Ay, yes, certainly; but have you Reilly\'s clothes safe—shoes, silver buckles, and all?”

“Ay, as safe as the head on your shoulders; and, upon my soul, a great dale safer, if you rob any more sheriffs.”

“Where are they, then?”

“Why, they\'re in my flat box, behind the bed, where nobody could see them.”

“Very well, Molly, that will do; I may want them wanst more,” he replied, pointing again with his thumb over his shoulder towards Whitecraft\'s residence; “so goodnight; be a good girl, and take care of yourself.”

“No,” she replied, “but do you be a good boy, and take care of yourself.” And so they parted for the night.

The next day Fergus, possessed of very important evidence against the Rapparee, was travelling along the public road, not more than half a mile from the residence of Sir Robert Whitecraft, when whom should he meet but the identical sheriff, on horseback, that the Rapparee had robbed. He put his hand to his hat, and asked him for charity.

“Help a poor ould man, for the love and honor of God.”

“Why don\'t you go to work—why don\'t you go to work?” replied the sheriff.

“I am not able, sir,” returned Fergus; “it wouldn\'t be good for my health, your honor.”

“Well, pass on and don\'t trouble me; I have nothing for you.”

“Ah! thin, sir, if you\'d give me a trifle, maybe I\'d make it worth your while.”

“What do you mean?” asked the sheriff, who knew that persons like him had opportunities of hearing and knowing more about local circumstances, in consequence of their vagrant life, than any other class of persons in society.

“What do you mean by what you have just said?”

“Aren\'t you the sheriff, sir, that was robbed some time ago?”

“I am.”

“Ah, sir, I see you are dressed in black; and I heard of the death of the misthress, sir.”

“Well, but what has that to do with what you have just now said—that you would make it worth my while if I gave you alms?”

“I said so, sir; and I can, if you will be guided by me.”

“Speak out; I don\'t understand you.”

“Would you like to see the man that robbed you, sir, and would you know him if you did see him?”

“Unquestionably I would know him. They say it was Reilly, but I have seen Reilly since; and although the dress was the same which Reilly usually wears, yet the faces were different.”

“Is your honor going far?” asked Fergus.

“No, I am going over to that farm-house, Tom Brady\'s; two or three of his family are ill of fever, and I wish to do something for him; I am about to make him my land bailiff.”

“What stay will you make there, your honor?”

“A very short one—not more than ten or fifteen minutes.”

“Would it be inconvenient for your honor to remain there, or somewhere about the house, for an hour, or may be a little longer?”

“For what purpose? You are a mysterious old fellow.”

“Bekaise, if you\'d wish to see the man that robbed you, I\'ll undhertake to show him to you, face to face, within that time. Will your honor promise this?”

The sheriff paused upon this proposal, coming as it did from such an equivocal authority. What, thought he, if it should be a plot for my life, in consequence of the fines which I have been forced to levy upon the Catholic priests and bishops in my official capacity. God knows I feel it to be a painful duty.

“What is your religion?” he asked, “and why should a gentleman in my condition of life place any confidence upon the word of a common vagrant like you, who must necessarily be imbued with all the prejudices of your creed—for I suppose you are a Catholic?”

“I am, sir; but, for all that, in half an hour\'s time I\'ll be a rank Protestant.”

The sheriff smiled and asked, “How the devil\'s that?”

“You are dressed in black, sir, in murnin\' for your wife. I have seen you go into Tom Brady\'s to give the sick creatures the rites of their Church. I give notice to Sir Robert Whitecraft that a priest is there; and my word to you, he and his hounds will soon be upon you. The man that robbed you will be among them—no, but the foremost of them; and if you don\'t know him, I can\'t help it—that\'s all, your honor.”

“Well,” replied the sheriff, “I shall give you nothing now; because I know not whether what you say can be relied upon or not. In the meantime, I shall remain an hour or better, in Brady\'s house; and if your words are not made good, I shall send to Sir Robert Whitecraft for a military party to escort me home.”

“I know, your honor,” replied Fergus, “that Sir Robert and his men are at home to-day; and if I don\'t fulfil my words, I\'ll give your honor lave to whip me through the county.”

“Well,” said the sheriff, “I shall remain an hour or so in Brady\'s; but I tell you that if you are deceiving me you shall not escape me; so look to it, and think if what you propose to me is honest or not—if it be not, woe betide you.”

Fergus immediately repaired to Sir Robert Whitecraft, to whom he represented himself as a poor Protestant of the name of Bingham, and informed him that a Popish priest was then in Tom Brady\'s house, administering the rites of Popery to those who were sick in the family.

“I seen him, your honor, go into the house; and he\'s there this minute\'. If your honor makes haste you\'ll catch him.”

In less than a quarter of an hour Sir Robert and his crew were in stirrups, and on their way to Tom Brady\'s; and in the meantime, too, the sheriff, dressed as he was, in black, came outside the door, from time to time, more in apprehension of a plot against his life than of a visit from Whitecraft, which he knew must end in nothing. Now, Whitecraft and his followers, on approaching Brady\'s house, caught a glimpse of him—a circumstance wh............