As has always been usual in executing cases, of the law attended with peculiar difficulty, these men--the infantry--like our present detectives, had gone out that night in colored clothes.

On perceiving two individuals approaching them in the dim distance, they immediately threw their guns into the ditch, lest they should put our friends upon their guard and cause them to escape if they could.

Reilly could have readily done so; but having, only a few minutes before heard from the poor old priest that he had, for some months past, been branded and pursued us a felon, he could not think of abandoning him now that he was feeble and jaded with fatigue as well as with age.

Now it so happened that one of these fellows had been a Roman Catholic, and having committed some breach of the law, found it as safe as it was convenient to change his creed, and as he spoke the Irish language fluently--indeed there were scarcely any other then spoken by the peasantry--he commenced clipping his hands on seeing the two men, and expressing the deepest sorrow for the loss of his wife, from whose funeral, it appeared from his lamentations, he was then returning.
"We have nothing to apprehend, here," said Reilly; "this poor fellow is in sorrow, it seems--God help him! Let us proceed." "Oh!" exclaimed the treacherous villain, clapping his hands--[we translate his words]--"Oh, Yeeah.

Yeeah! (God, God!) what a bitther loss you'll be, my darlin' Madge, to me and your orphan childher, now and for evermore! Oh, where was there sich a wife, neighbors?
who ever heard her harsh word, or her loud voice?
And from mornin' till night ever, ever busy in keepin' every thing tight and clane and regular! Let me alone, will yez?
I'll go back and sleep upon her grave this night--so I will; and if all the blasted sogers in Ireland--may sweet bad luck to them!--were to come to prevent me, I'd not allow them.