This was peculiarly
the age of superstition and of a belief in the connection of both men
and women with diabolical agencies; for such was the creed of the day.
One evening, about this time, Caterine Collins was on her way home to
Rathfillan, I when, on crossing a piece of bleak moor adjacent to the
town, a powerful young fellow, dressed in the truis, cloak, and barrad
of the period, started up from a clump of furze bushes, and addressed
her as follows:--
"Caterine," said he, "are you in a hurry?"
"Not particularly," she replied; "but in God's name, Shawn, what brings
you here? Are you mad? or what tempts you to come within the jaws of the
law that are gaping for you as their appointed victim? Don't you know
you are an outlaw?"
"I will answer your first question first," he replied. "What tempted me
to come here? Vengeance--deep and deadly vengeance. Vengeance upon the
villain who has ruined Grace Davoren. I had intended to take her life
first; but I am an Irishman, and will not visit upon the head of
the innocent girl, whom this incarnate devil has tempted beyond her
strength, the crime for which he is accountable.
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