“Tell Maher I want him, then; and mind me, Sir,” added he, as the man was leaving the room, “no story-telling, no conspiring, for if Dan Maher refuses to obey my orders, whatever they are, he’ll follow you, and so shall every man of you, if I leave the island without a family except my own.”
“Don’t send your child out, anyways,” said the man.
“Leave the room, Sir,” said Luttrell, imperiously; and the man, cowed and crestfallen, closed the door and withdrew.
As though to carry corroboration to the sailor’s warning, a fierce blast struck the window at the moment, making the old woodwork rattle, and threatening to smash it in, while the dark sky grew darker, and seemed to blend with the leaden-coloured sea.
“I want you to go over to Westport, Maher,” said Luttrell to a hard-featured, weather-beaten man of about fifty, who now stood wet and dripping at the door.
“Very well, Sir,” was the answer.
“Take the big yawl, and any crew you please. Whenever all is ready, come up here for your orders.”
“Very well, Sir,” said the man, and retired.
“Where’s Master Harry, Molly?” cried Luttrell, advancing into the passage that led toward the kitchen.
“He’s out on the rocks, Sir, watching the sea.”