“Ay, that's the name of it.”
“The property of one Bagenal Daly, Esquire, isn't it?”
Tate nodded an assent.
“Maybe he is in England too,” continued Nickie. “Perhaps it was the Queen sent for him,—he 's a handsome man, I suppose?”
“Faix, you can judge for yourself,” said Tate, “for there he is, looking at you this minute.”
Nickie turned about hastily, while a terrible fear shot through him that his remarks might have been heard by the individual himself; for, though a stranger to Daly personally, he was not so to his reputation for hare-brained daring and rashness, nor was it till he had stared at the wooden representative for some seconds that he could dispel his dread of the original.
“Is that like him?” asked he, affecting a sneer.
“As like as two pays,” said Tate, “barring about the eyes; Mr. Daly's is brighter and more wild-looking. The Blessed Joseph be near us!” exclaimed the old man, crossing himself devoutly, “one would think the crayture knew what we were saying. Sorra lie in 't, there 's neither luck nor grace in talking about you!”
This last sentiment, uttered in a faint voice, was called forth by an involuntary shuddering of poor Mr. Dempsey, who, feeling that the whole scrutiny of the party was directed towards his hiding-place, trembled so violently that the plumes nodded, and the bone necklace jingled with the motion.
While Mr. Nickie attributed these signs to the wind, he at the same time conceived a very low estimate of poor Tate's understanding,—an impression not altogether un-warranted by the sidelong and stealthy looks which he threw at the canoe and its occupants.