field by the river, where the plough lay, and
having yoked them he began turning up the
furrows afresh.

"It's a fine mornin', glory be to God!" he
soliloquised, "on'y fer the poor sowl that's to
see the last of it. Musha! What's that? Woa,
thin," he cried, suddenly catching sight of
something which looked like a heap of muddy clothes.
"Lord save us!" And without losing a
moment, he ran down to where the unconscious
man was lying, face downward, on the sedge.

Pat Moran's first impulse was to run for help;
his next to raise the body gently and drag it
further up. The motion aroused the poor half-
dead creature.

"Who, in heaven's name, are ye, an' what
brought ye here?" inquired the farmer, looking
in terror at the handcuffs.

"I'm—aren't you Pat Moran?"

"Yes."

"Pat, ye knew me poor father. I'm Tim
Welsh, the poor fellow that's to be hanged to-
day. Won't ye thry an' save me, for the love of
God? I've come through the sewer. I'm all
night creepin' through it, an' I swam the river,
an' I'm 'most gone! Won't ye thry an' save
me, Pat Moran, and the Lord 'll remimber it
to you an' your childher for iver."

"Tim Welsh! Lord be good to me. What
am I to do wud ye? I'm done for, if you're
found wud me, an' how can I save ye? What
am I to do? Sure 'tisn't in the regard of
sayin' that I wouldn't do a good turn for ye,
Tim, but the counthry 'll be roused afther ye,
an' where'll I hide ye, or what'll I do at all?"
Thus groaned the farmer as he opened the little
gate and led him into the kitchen, where Kate
was baking a griddle cake for breakfast.

"Father, honey! O lor! What's that!" she
cried, as the tottering figure in the soaked
discoloured garments came into the cheerful light
of the turf fire.

"Whisht, acushla! It's Tim Welsh," he
whispered. Kate sprang up from her knees,
and her face grew white.

"Kate, honey, what are we to do wud him?"
said her father, trembling, as he recounted the
manner of Tim's escape.

"Hide him, father!" she cried, with all a
woman's impulsive generosity. "The Lord
pity you!" she added, bursting into tears at
sight of the wretched object before her.

"I'll do what I can, Tim. Give him a bit to
ate, Katie. I'll spake to some one I can
thrust."

"Pat, me life is in your hands," broke in
the fugitive.

"Never fear, avick. I'll do me best for ye."
He hurried away a few hundred yards to the
house of his landlord, a Protestant minister;
he knocked furiously at his front door, and was
admitted by a sleepy maid-servant.

"Somethin' I want to spake to the masther
about—I'm goin' to the fair this mornin'—tell
him I'm in a great hurry, af ye plase."

After a minute's delay the gentleman appeared.

"Somethin' very particular, sir," said the
farmer, in a low voice. "About that cow you
were spakin' to me, sir," he added, for the
maidservant's benefit.

"Come into my study here, Moran," said his
landlord.

"Be your lave, sir, I'll shut the door," said
Moran. Then walking over to the table he put
his clasped hands on it.

"Misther Raymond, I can thrust you. I'm
in a great hobble, sir, an' I dunno what to do
at all. Misther Raymond, you was always a
kind friend, and a good friend, and you'll not
betray me? It's another man's saycret, an'
you must give me your word, sir, else I'd be
afeard to let mortal man hear me."

"Moran, if you think I can promise as a
man and a Christian, I will. You may trust me,
whatever it is," said Mr. Raymond.

Thus assured the farmer unfolded his story,
and begged his landlord's counsel.

"I hardly know how to advise you, Moran,"
said he, as soon as he could speak coherently
in his astonishment. "The poor fellow will be
found out, I'm afraid, in spite of all you can
do, and you'll get into great trouble. Have his
handcuffs filed off at all events," he went on in
a low tone. "Martin Leary will do it, and you
can trust him, and maybe the best you can do
is to give the fugitive some of your clothes,
and some food, and this." He took a guinea
from a drawer. "Bury his prison clothes
carefully in the manure pit, and start him on the
road to Wexford. That is all you can do safely,
but be quick!"

The farmer left the house and ran on to the
blacksmith's forge, where the smith and his son
were getting to work.

"Martin, I'm in a great hurry, goin' to the
fair, an' I wan't ye to run over wud somethin'
to cut a chain for me; 'twon't take you five
minutes. Martin you niver did a bether day's
work in your life if you'll come as fast as yere
legs'll carry ye!" He said this in an under
tone while the son's back was turned, "and
whisht for all sakes!" he added, clenching his
hand and shaking it at the unconscious young
Vulcan; then he rushed out, leaving the father
grasping a bar of iron and staring after him.

The smith, with the freemasonry that exists
among the Irish peasantry, perceived that there
was secresy and trouble in the way, and that
his good faith was relied on. He picked up some
tools, muttered an excuse to his son, and
followed, hastily.

When Pat Moran reached home he was met
at the door by Kate.

"Is he safe?"

"Yes, father, he's in the room atin' a bit."

Her father went in, and going up to his
strange guest said, "I'm goin' to do what I can
for you, Tim," Then they all began discussing
eagerly the best way for the fugitive to take.

"But Lord! The whole counthry'll be roused
afther him!" broke in the farmer, dejectedly, as
they suggested various lonely hill-paths and
cross-cuts. "Lord! They'll root up the ground
after him! I must thry though, I must thry.