“Have no fear, young fellow; you may poach every acre for twenty miles round—I have not tracked you on that score.”
“Poach!—tracked me!” reiterated Mark O'Donoghue, for it is needless to say it was he; and then, as if the ludicrous were even stronger in his mind than mere passion, he burst into a rude laugh; while the sick boy's pale face grew a deep crimson, as, with faltering accents, he said—
“You must be a stranger here, sir, I fancy.”
“I am so,” said Travers mildly and yielding at once to the respect ever due to suffering; “my name is Travers. I have come over here to enquire after a young gentleman who saved my sister's life.”
“Then you've tracked him well,” interposed Mark, with an emphasis on the word. “Here he is.”
“Will you not sit down,” said Herbert, motioning with his wasted hand to a seat.
Frederick took his place beside the boy at once and said—“We owe you, sir, the deepest debt of gratitude it has ever been our fortune to incur; and if anything could enhance the obligation, it has been the heroism, the personal daring——”
“Hold there,” said Mark, sternly. “It's not our custom here to listen to compliments on our courage—we are O'Donoghues.”
“This young gentleman's daring was no common one,” answered Travers, as if stung by the taunt.
“My brother will scarce feel flattered by your telling him so,” was Mark's haughty answer; and for some seconds Frederick knew not how to resume the conversation; at last, turning to Herbert, he said—