“The brother was a handsome man before he had that sickness,” observed a third. “'Tis no use of his legs he has!”
These frank commentaries on the new arrivals were suddenly interrupted by the appearance of the old man on the steps of the hall door, where he stood gazing down the street, and totally unconscious of the notice he was attracting.
“What's that building yonder?” cried he, to the waiter at his side, and his accent, as he spoke, betrayed a foreign tongue. “The Town Hall!—ah, to be sure, I remember it now; and, if I be not much mistaken, there is——at least there was—an old rickety stair to a great loft overhead, where a strange fellow lived, who made masks for the theatre—what's this his name was?” The bystanders listened to these reminiscences in silent astonishment, but unable to supply the missing clew to memory. “Are none of you old enough to remember Jack Ruth, the huntsman?” cried he, aloud.
“I have heard my father talk of him,” said a middle-aged man, “if it was the same that galloped down the mountain of Corrig-O'Neal and swam the river at the foot of it.”
“The very man,” broke in the stranger. “Two of the dogs, but not a man, dared to follow! I have seen some bold feats since that day, but I scarcely think I have ever witnessed a more dashing exploit. If old Jack has left any of his name and race behind him,” said he, turning to the waiter, “say that there's one here would like to see him;” and with this he re-entered the inn.
“Who is this gentleman that knows the country so well?” asked the priest..
“Count Dalton von Auersberg, sir,” replied the courier. “His whole thoughts are about Ireland now, though I believe he has not been here for upwards of sixty years.”
“Dalton!” muttered the priest to himself; “what can have brought them to Ireland? D'Esmonde must be told of this at once!” And he pushed through the crowd and hastened back to the little inn.