midnight
he cried ; and a voice from his inmost heart replied , `` A murderer ! '' The cold sweat rolled in great drops down his brow , while the foam of agony dewed his pallid lips , and his frame trembled in a terrible convulsion . Confused and fearful images of bloodshed and its penalty , the crime and the scaffold , commingled , worked in his maddened brain . He heard the rush of feet , as if thousands were hurrying on , to see him die , and voices that swelled like the sea at midnight . Nor was the vision all unreal : for already two men had entered the hut . The dreadful torture of his thoughts had now reached its climax , and with a bound Owen sprang from his sleep , and cried in a shriek of heart-wrung anguish , `` No , never -- I am not a murderer . Owen Connor can meet his death like a man , but not with blood upon him . ''