“Whisky?” she suggested, as she unscrewed the stopper.
“No, sherry. I shall want some jumping powder to get on the fellow’s back”; and he took a long draught. As he handed the flask to her to be replaced, he said, “Hullo! little Foley, what’s this? You’ve been blubbering; there are two great dirty streaks down your cheeks! What were you crying for?”
“Well, then, Mr. Ulick,” getting very red, “sure, didn’t I think you were dead?”
“And so you were weeping over my remains? That was very kind of you, little Foley.”
“And wouldn’t any one cry after you, Master Ulick?” she demanded with an air of friendly wonder.
“Would they? Well I hope I shan’t give them a chance for some years. Now, do you stand by his head, and I’ll do my big best to get on his back.”
Apparently the effort was not merely protracted, but agonising. When Mary looked up at the rider, she was startled at what she saw; his face seemed drawn and grey, like that of an old man; the skin looked clammy.
“Now run along”—he spoke between his shut teeth—“and try and break down the stone gap into the boreen.”
This feat Mary accomplished without difficulty, and Ulick and his lame hunter passed through into the lane. All up the lane, they were closely attended by the child, who seemed to consider them both under her care. At last they reached a black wooden gate leading into the so-called demesne; as she opened it, she halted, and so did Ulick Doran.