“Arrah! don't provoke me. Take your baste and go, in God's name.”
And so saying, Kerry, whose patience was fast ebbing, pushed wide the stable-door, and pointed to the stall where Lanty's hackney was standing.
“Bring out that grey mare, Master Kerry,” said Lanty in a tone of easy insolence, purposely assumed to provoke the old huntsman's anger, “Bring her out here.”
“And what for, would I bring her out?”
“May be I'll tell you afterwards,” was the reply. “Just do as I say, now.”
“The devil a one o' me will touch the beast at your bidding; and what's more, I'll not let yourself lay a finger on her.”
“Be quiet, you old fool,” said a deep voice behind him. He turned, and there stood Mark O'Donoghue himself, pale and haggard after his night's excess. “Be quiet, I say. The mare is his—let him have her.”
“Blessed Virgin!” exclaimed Kerry, “here's the hunting season beginning, and sorrow thing you'll have to put a saddle on, barrin'—barrin'—”
“Barring what?” interposed Lanty, with an insolent grin.
The young man flushed at the impertinence of the insinuation, but said not a word for a few minutes, then suddenly exclaimed—