‘That wild-looking fellow, that seemed to utter an imprecation, has just pronounced a fervent blessing; what he has said was, “May every glance of your eye be a candle to light you to glory.”’
A half-insolent laugh at this conceit was all Nina’s acknowledgment of it. Short greetings and good wishes were now rapidly exchanged between Donogan and the people, as the little party made their way through the crowd—the men standing bareheaded, and the women uttering words of admiration, some even crossing themselves piously, at sight of such loveliness, as, to them, recalled the ideal of all beauty.
‘The police are to be here at one o’clock,’ said Donogan, translating a phrase of one of the bystanders.
‘And is there anything for them to seize on?’ asked she.
‘No; but they can level the cabins,’ cried he bitterly. ‘We have no more right to shelter than to food.’
Moody and sad, he walked along at the pony’s head, and did not speak another word till they had left the village far behind them.
Larry, as usual, had found something to interest him, and dropped behind in the village, and they were alone.
A passing countryman, to whom Donogan addressed a few words in Irish, told them that a short distance from Croghan they could stable the pony at a small ‘shebeen.’
On reaching this, Nina, who seemed to have accepted Donogan’s companionship without further question, directed him to unpack the carriage and take out her easel and her drawing materials. ‘You’ll have to carry these—fortunately not very far, though,’ said she, smiling, ‘and then you’ll have to come back here and fetch this basket.’
‘It is a very proud slavery—command me how you will,’ muttered he, not without emotion.