“I can't go any further with you. I dar'n't go there.”
“And why not, my poor fellow?” said Mark, compassionately, for the terror depicted in his face too plainly indicated the return of some hallucination.
“They're there, now,” said Terry, in a faint whisper, “watching for me. They're five weeks waiting to catch me, but if I keep in the mountains I needn't care.”
“And who are they, Terry?”
“The soldiers,” said Terry, trembling all over. “I ran away from them, and they want to shoot me for desarting.”
“And there are soldiers quartered at Mary's now?”
“Ay, and at Macroom, and at Bantry, and Kinsale—they have them all round us; but devil a one o' me cares; so long as they keep to the towns, I'll never trouble them.”
“And how does poor Mary bear it?” said Mark.
“Bad enough, I hear, for nobody ever goes into the house at all, since she had the red-coats, and there she's pining away every day; but I must be going. I'll come down and see you soon, Master Mark, and I hope you won't lave us in a hurry again.” Terry did not wait for any rejoinder to this speech, but with the agility of his wild life, sprung lightly up the mountain, from whence his voice was heard gaily carolling as he went, long afterwards.
Mark looked after him for a few moments, and probably amid the compassionate feelings with which he regarded the poor creature, there were mingled others of actual envy, so light-hearted and happy did he seem amidst all his poverty.