“Waur he canna be,” muttered Sir Archy, with a significance that gave the words a very equivocal meaning.
“But there is still hope. They told us yesterday that to-morrow would be the crisis of the malady—the twentieth day since his relapse.”
“Yes, yes!” said the old man, who, not noticing her remark, pursued aloud the track of his own reflections. “Entrapped—ensnared—I see it all now. And only eight days given!—and even of these to be kept in ignorance. Poor fellow, how you have been duped.”
“But this delirium may pass away, uncle,” said Kate, who, puzzled at his vague expressions, sought to bring him again to the theme of Hemsworth's illness.
“Then comes the penalty, lassie,” cried he, energetically. “The Government canna forgie a rebel, as parents do naughty children, by the promise of doing better next time. When a daring scheme—but wait a bit, here's Kerry. Come to the window, man; come over here,” and he called him towards him.
Whatever were the tidings Kerry brought, Sir Archy seemed overjoyed by them; and taking Herbert's arm, he hurried from the room, leaving the O'Donoghue and Kate in a state of utter bewilderment.
“I'm afraid, my sweet niece, that Hemsworth's disease is a catching one. Archy has a devilish wild, queer look about him to-day,” said the O'Donoghue, laughing.
“I hope he has heard no bad news, sir. He is seldom so agitated as this. But what can this mean? Here comes a chaise up the road. See, it has stopped at the gate, and there is Kerry hastening down with a portmantua.”
Sir Archy entered as she spoke, dressed for the road, and approaching his brother-in-law's chair, whispered a few words in his ear.
“Great heaven protect us!” exclaimed the O'Donoghue, falling back, half unconscious, into his seat. While, turning to Kate, Sir Archy took her hand in both of his, and said—