At eleven minutes past three Gypo was condemned to death. The three
judges went away, leaving Gallagher in charge of the execution of the
sentence.
At eighteen minutes past three Mulholland entered the inquiry room,
with the three men who had been detailed to carry out the sentence
passed on the prisoner. They stood to attention in front of the table
at which Gallagher was sitting. Gallagher read to them the decision of
the court. Then he gave them their orders.
“Comrade Mulholland,” he said, “will be in charge. When I leave this
room you will cast lots in the usual manner. You will then take the
prisoner in the motor-van to any part of the mountain road, about
half-way between Killakee and Glencree. There is bog on either side of
the road. At any spot in that locality, you will be at least two miles
from the nearest house. Execute the sentence there. Bury the body some
distance from the road. Just drop it into a pool of bog water. When
you have finished the job go straight ahead across the mountain to
Enniskerry and come back to the city by another route. There are
several. You can choose the most convenient. Report to me at
head-quarters as soon as you come back, Bartly. I will wait for you
there. Carry on, comrades. Get the prisoner away as quickly as
possible. Use force if necessary to prevent him from creating a
disturbance, but you must on no account execute the sentence until you
get to the mountains.”
Gallagher left the room. He went across the passage to the room where
Mary McPhillip was sitting alone. All the armed men were gathered in
the guardroom at the foot of the stairs. Tommy Connor had come in now.
He was explaining something to them in a hoarse voice. Two men were
stationed outside the door of the cell. The sentry paced up and down
the passage again.
Gallagher sat down on the wooden form beside Mary McPhillip. He did
not look at her. He stared at the floor. His forehead twitched. His
face was very drawn.
“We have discovered the informer, Mary,” he said in a low voice. “Your
brother will be shortly avenged. It was Gypo Nolan who betrayed him.”
There was silence. Gallagher had uttered the last sentence
dramatically, like a tremendous revelation. But Mary did not speak. He
looked at her.
“Mary,” he said again, a little louder. “It was Gypo Nolan who
informed on your brother.”
She shuddered and looked at him sadly in the gloom.
“I knew that,” she said, “all along. Poor fellow.”
“What?” he gasped, staring at her.
“What are you going to do with him, Dan?” she asked, almost inaudibly.
“I hope you’re not . . .” She stopped.
Gallagher looked at her sharply, in wonder, suspiciously, as if he had
suddenly proved to himself that all his calculations had been wrong
about something.
“Surely what, Mary?” he said at length, almost timorously.
“You’re not going to kill him,” she said. “That would only be another
murder, added to . . . to the other. It wouldn’t help the dead. Lord
have mercy on him.”
“Murder!” ejaculated Gallagher dreamily, as if he had heard the word
for the first time in his life and he were reflecting on its
significance, incredulously like a philosopher confronted unexpectedly
by a stupendous superstition. Then his nostrils expanded and his face
hardened into anger, as he realized her meaning and her attitude
towards the sentence that was about to be passed on Gypo. “Murder, did
you say? Great Scott! Do you call it murder to wipe out a serpent that
has betrayed your brother? Where is your . . . ? Do you call yourself
an Irishwoman? What? Good Lord! I don’t know what to make of it.
What . . . ? Good Heavens!”
“Listen to me, Dan,” she said, sobbing; “for God’s sake, listen to me
before you do this. Listen. I didn’t know until now how awful it is. I
was foolish the way I talked at home this evening when all the people
were there. I was so mad the way father was talking that I thought I
could shoot the man that informed on Frankie myself. But it would be
murder, Dan, just the same as any other murder. And——”
“Oh, hang it!” snapped Gallagher.
“Dan,” she whispered, “don’t do it, for my sake. I love you. Don’t do
it, for my sake and I’ll do anything you want me. I feel I’m the cause
of this.”
“Mary, do you love me?” whispered Gallagher excitedly, panting as he
seized her right hand in both of his. He bent towards her. “Say it
again. Say you love me.”
But he drew back immediately, with a strange and unnatural presence of
mind. He was afraid that the passing sentry might see him.
Tears were rolling down Mary’s cheeks. She looked away towards the
doorway. She kept silent. Gallagher leaned back from her, watching her
face intently. He looked at her from under his bunched eyebrows. His
lips were set firmly. His forehead convulsed. He appeared to be
struggling with a savage passion and at the same time struggling to
think coherently on the intellectual plane. He was trying to probe the
movements of her mind so that he might conquer it with his mind. He
wanted to conquer her mind and make her subject to him, to make her
his mate on his own terms. He told himself that he was doing this, so
that she might help him for the conquest of power. He refused to admit
to himself that he was inspired by passion. He despised passion.
The silence was very peculiar and tense. Mary was conscious of it. But
Gallagher was not conscious of it. Then Mary spoke. She talked rapidly
without looking at him. She talked in an irritated tone.
“Take me out of this place immediately, Dan,” she said. “I was mad to
come here with you. I had no business to come here atall. Also, if you
were a gentleman you wouldn’t ask me to come. What I said just now
about loving you was not true. I only said it trying to persuade you
not to murder that man. Before, when I used to read in the papers
about a man being shot, I used to think it was right, but it’s a
different thing when a man you know does a thing like that. Frankie
killed a man too, Lord have mercy on him. Oh, God, have pity on us
all.” She became slightly hysterical. “Why can’t we have peace? Why
must we be killing one another? Why——”
“Hush! Keep quiet. Keep quiet.”
“Isn’t it cruel, Dan?”
She let her head fall on her hands. Her body shook with silent sobs.
Gallagher stared at her dreamily.
“I will let her alone now,” he thought. “The logical sequence of this
outburst will be this. Her mind will wheel around to the other extreme
if I keep quiet and don’t irritate her by attempting to convince her
that I am right. Her terror and her moral excitement will exhaust
themselves and go to sleep. Then she will become aware of her strange
surroundings, mentally, in a different way. When her mind becomes
awake and normally acute again, she will see me, this place and what’s
going to be done with Gypo, in an opposite light. When her mind is
groping about in this new attitude it will be easy for me to influence
her. I think I’m right. At least it always held good, that rule. I
remember the struggle I had with Sean Conroy. But women are supposed
to be different from men a lot psychologically. But I have to chance
that. It would be suicidal to interfere with her now. That’s certain.
Still . . . I’m not sure of myself with her somehow. . . . It’s not
like the others. And . . .”
Again his passion surged upwards. He sat without thought, fighting it,
squeezing his palms together, with his eyes on her bent neck.