had been Kate's lover, and that, though he had
deserted her, she would not take his life away
or betray "her people." The Keoghs had been
the chief planners and actors in the murder of
Mara, with whom they had been intimate.
They were dressed like respectable farmers.
Patrick, the younger, wore a blue coat and
white waistcoat, and a knotted black silk
handkerchief round his neck; he was short and
athletic, and had a determined expression of
face. John, the elder, was a man of towering
stature and broad shoulders. He was carelessly
dressed, and his neck was bare. His blue
eyes were mild and intelligent. The old
grey-headed father of these prisoners sat on
their left hand, his eyes glaring, his cheeks
blanching, as the fate of the men became
more and more certain, but for the whole
sixteen hours of the trial he never uttered
a word. This time Kate Costello's manner was
entirely changed; she had taken the first step,
and now she did not falter. She kept her quick
shrewd eyes wide open and fixed upon the
counsel, and she watched the cross-examination
with a keen wary vigilance. She exhibited no
compunction, and without apparent regret laid
the rod on the heads of her relative and her
lover. Early on Sunday morning the verdict
of guilty was brought in. The prisoners, the
day before blooming with health, were now
white as shrouds. The judge told them that,
as it was Easter Sunday, he should delay
passing sentence.

The two unhappy men cried out, "A long day,
a long day, my lord!" and begged that their
bodies might be given to their father. As they
made this pathetic request, they uttered the
funeral wail, and swaying themselves up and
down, threw back their heads and struck their
breasts with their fingers half closed, in the
manner used by Roman Catholics in saying the
"Confiteor." Two friends then lifted the old
man upon the witness-table so that he could
approach the dock. He stretched out his arms
towards John Keogh, who, leaning over the
iron spikes to him full length, clasped his father
long and closely to his bosom. The younger
man's courage gave way at this, and the hot
tears rained down his face. The judge then left
the court, and the two prisoners were removed
to the condemned cells. The old man was led
home moaning through the stormy night to the
miserable cellar where he lodged.

Old John Russell pleaded guilty at the bar,
in the hope of saving his sons, lads of fifteen
or sixteen. " Let them," he kept saying, " put
me on the trap, if they like, but do let them spare
the boys." These assizes lasted three weeks,
nearly all the cases being connected with
agrarian outrages. There was scarcely one example
of a murder committed for mere gain.

It was at these same assizes, at which three
hundred and eighty persons were tried, that one
of the murderers of the Sheas was tried. This
outrage was one of the most inhuman that ever
took place in Ireland, and is still talked of in
Tipperary with peculiar horror. The crime
dated back to the year 1821. In November of
that year, a respectable farmer, named Patrick
Shea, who had lately turned out of his farm an
under-tenant, named William Gorman, came to
live in the house left vacant by the eviction.
It was situated in a dark gloomy glen, at the
foot of the misty and bleak mountain of
Slievenamawn, and, on a clear day, it was just visible
from the high road through the narrow defile of
Glenbower.

On Saturday, the 18th of November, a man
of evil character, named William Maher, came
to a low shibbeen near the mountain, kept by a
man and woman named Kelly, of infamous
character. These people sold spirits without a
licence, and their house was a well-known resort
of bad characters of both sexes. Maher, who
was the paramour of Kelly's wife, retired to a
recess in the house (probably that used for
secret distilling), and melting some lead, ran it
into musket bullets. The woman, having heard
the "boys" were going to inflict summary
justice on the Sheas, for being so harsh to
Gorman, whom they had driven out penniless, and
without covert or shelter, and being sure Maher
would be in the business, taxed him with it, and,
having some good instincts left, besought him
not to take away life. Maher answered with
equivocations. The bullets were scarcely finished
before a newly married servant of the Sheas,
Catherine Mullaly, a cousin of Mary Kelly,
came in. Maher, who knew Catherine, began
bantering her in the Irish way, and the girl
joined heart and soul in the repartees. Maher's
aim was to discover if the Sheas' house, which
was well garrisoned, contained any store of
firearms.

The girl, pleased with his attentions, gradually
disclosed to Maher the fact that the Sheas had
a great many muskets and pistols, and when
she left Maher put on her cloak for her, and bade
her farewell as a friend. Mary Kelly, who
knew the wretch better, the moment the door
closed on Catherine, implored Maher whatever
was done, not to harm that poor girl. He
promised, and soon after quitted the house with the
bullets, leaving Mary Kelly confident of the
safety of Catherine. But, nevertheless, the
next day her fears revived when she heard
Maher and some mysterious whispering men,
who dropped into the shibbeen that day after
mass talking under breath.

Mary knew that "a word would have been as
much as her life was worth," so she did not speak
of it even to her husband; but on the Monday
night, when he was asleep, stole out of bed,
slipped on his coat, and made her way cautiously
and slowly under the loose stone walls and
hedges to the vicinity of Maher's house. She
stopped, for she could hear voices. At length the
door opened, and she hid herself behind some
brambles as the murderers came out. They
passed her, armed and in file; eight faces and
eight voices she recognised. One of the eight
carried two long lighted sods of turf which he
kept alive by his breath. They did not see
her, and passed on. Trembling and
terror-stricken, but still magnetically drawn, she
followed them from hedge to hedge, till they