The three judges moved back from the table and stood against the wall, undecided whether to run for safety, or to rush to the attack.
Mulholland pulled at Gallagher’s arm excitedly.
“Will I fire, Commandant?” he whispered.
“Don’t shoot,” murmured Gallagher in a dazed, sleepy voice. He was staring at the struggling men with a sad smile on his face, as if he were dreaming. “Don’t shoot. He’s not sentenced yet. Don’t fire, I tell you.”
Then Mulholland ran crouching and threw himself at Gypo’s legs, trying to encompass them with his arms. There were now five men hanging on to Gypo. He was like Laocoön, entwined with snakes. He stood bolt upright, with every muscle on his body knotted.
Then he lurched away to the right towards the door, with that human cargo, unmoored and swinging by the sudden lurch, clashing with soft thuds, in a panting mass. He was brought within three paces of the door by the lurch. He saw the door. With an immense wrench that made his biceps crack, he shook the men from off his back and neck. They slithered downwards with a scratching sound of their nails clawing his clothes. They clung round his hips. Then he growled and stooped down to manhandle the men that clung to his legs. His groping hands clutched Mulholland’s hair. His fingers groped downwards, seeking the throat to garrotte him, when a mad rush of feet startled him. He looked up.
They were rushing at him through the doorway. He saw for a moment, a number of flashing eyes, and set lips and clawing hands, rushing at him. Then he dived headlong at his new enemies. He forced them backwards in a mass into the doorway. There they all fell, amid yells and hissing curses and shrieks of pain. Then Gypo’s great boots stuck out of the pile in the centre, while Mulholland’s grinning, sallow face peered up between them.
When they cleared away the jam of human bodies from him he was exhausted. Four men pinioned his arms behind his back. Then he was dragged along the passage into the prison cell. They loosed him and threw him in. They bolted the door.
XII
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 halfway between Killaicee 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 headquarters 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
