“And so shall it be,” said Cashel, in a deep low voice.
“If this life of luxury has not unsteadied your finger, I'd not take his place for half your fortune.”
A short motion of the head from Cashel seemed to concur with this speech.
“How I wish you were to be with me, Enrique!” said he, after a silence of some minutes.
“So should I, Roland; but you will not need me: were there two to bring to reckoning, I'd stay, cost what it might. And here we say farewell.” They had walked together, during this colloquy, to the high-road, which on one side leads towards Tubbermore, and on the other to Limerick.
Cashel held his comrade's hand fast clasped in his own, without speaking. The sense of isolation had never struck him so forcibly as now that, having met an old and attached friend, he was about to part with him so suddenly. It appeared to darken his solitude into something more lonely still.
“I 'd have thought that all this wealth had made you happier,” said Enrique, as he gazed at the sorrow-struck features of his friend.
“Neither happier nor better,” said Roland, mournfully.
“There! see yonder,” cried Enrique, “where you see the lamps flashing; those are the carriages of your gay company. Remember that you are the host to-night; and so, good-bye.”
“Good-bye, my old comrade.”