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Updated: June 24, 2025
Teigue O'Regan, the veteran governor, defended the place with the greatest bravery, and did not capitulate until the 14th of May, when the last ounce of provisions was consumed. The garrison were allowed honourable terms, and the eight hundred men who defended the place, with their arms and baggage, and some two hundred women and children, were allowed to march away.
On turning towards the moon they were both immediately recognized by the priest and O'Regan, who looked on in silence and wonder, and waited to hear, if possible, the object of their visit.
Decline then set in, and the handsome and high-spirited Torley O'Regan, lay patiently awaiting his dissolution, his languid eye dim with the shadow of its approach. From the moment it was ascertained that his death, early and unexpectedly, was known to be certain, the grief of his parents transcended the bounds of ordinary sorrow.
The onset, too, was so quick, that neither Father Roche nor O'Regan had time to render assistance. "Great heaven," exclaimed the priest, "is the young man, bad and wicked as he is, to be murdered before our eyes by that gigantic idiot!" He proceeded to the spot just when Raymond was about to repeat, in reality, the imaginary scene with the pillow.
Anciently the east of Meath had been divided between the four families called "the four tribes of Tara," whose names are now anglicized O'Hart, O'Kelly, O'Connelly, and O'Regan.
O'Regan was about to start off at the top of his speed; and Father Roche began to walk to and fro the old ruin, struck by the pale moonlight, as it fell through the gray stone windows, loopholes, and breaches of the walls, lighting up some old remnant of human ambition, or perhaps exposing a grinning skull, bleached by time and the elements into that pale white, which is perhaps the most ghastly exponent of death and the dead.
M'Clutchy's object was to remove them from the property, in order that he might replace them with a more obedient and less conscientious class; for this was his principle of action under such circumstances. It so happened that there lived among them a man named O'Regan, who, in point of comfort, was at the head of this little community.
An old man named John O'Regan of New Zealand, who had been twelve years in exile in the United States and forty-eight on the Australian continent, with failing eyesight, in a letter that took him from January to June of the year 1906 to write, endeavored to set down scraps of Irish lore which he had carried with him from the old country and which had clung to his memory to the last.
Many of our readers may be led to imagine that the terrors of Mary O'Regan were altogether unproportioned to anything that might be apprehended from the approach of the officers of justice, or, at least to those who came to execute the law. The state of Irish society at that time, however, was very different from what it is now, or has been for the last twenty years.
"Whisht," said Raymond, "let us see who have we here? Ah," said he, stooping down and feeling the chill of death upon her features, "it is Mary O'Regan, and she's dead dead!" "Dead," exclaimed Phil, starting, "curse you, Rimon, let us be off at full speed, I say Gad, I'm in a nice pickle; and these pistols are of no use against any confounded ghost."
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