“Eh?”
There was a shrill tone of surprise and curiosity in this exclamation.
“You ought to know Sandy Flash better, before you prophesy in his name,” Gilbert repeated, in a stern voice.
“Oh, Mr. Gilbert, tell me what you mean?” She grasped his leg with one hand, while she twisted the other in Roger's mane, as if to hold both horse and rider until the words were explained.
Thereupon he related to her in a brief, fierce way, all that had befallen him. Her face grew red and her eyes flashed; she shook her fist and swore under her breath, from time to time, while he spoke.
“You'll be righted, Mr. Gilbert!” she then cried, “you'll be righted, never fear! Leave it to me! Haven't I always kep' my word to you? You're believin' I lied the last time, and no wonder; but I'll prove the truth o' my words yet—may the Devil git my soul, if I don't!”
“Don't think that I blame you, Deborah,” he said. “You were too sure of my good luck, because you wished me to have it—that's all.”
“Thank ye for that! But it isn't enough for me. When I promise a thing, I have power to keep my promise. Ax me no more questions; bide quiet awhile, and if the money isn't back in your pocket by New-Year, I give ye leave to curse me, and kick me, and spit upon me!”
Gilbert smiled sadly and incredulously, and rode onward. He made haste to reach home, for a dull pain began to throb in his head, and chill shudders ran over his body. He longed to have the worst over which yet awaited him, and gain a little rest for body, brain, and heart.