“Where, then, is Sir Archy?” said Hemsworth, anxiously.
“That would seem a secret to every one. He left this one morning at a moment's notice, taking the chaise that brought the doctor here. The post-boy pretended he was discharged; but I say that the excuse was made up, and that the fellow was bribed. On reaching Macroom, the old man got fresh horses, and started for Cork.”
“And what's the report in the country, Wylie?”
“There are two stories. One, that he heard some rumours of an accusation against himself, for intriguing with the United people, and thought best to get over to Scotland for a while.”
“That's folly; what is the other rumour?”
“A more likely one,” said Wylie, as he threw a shrewd glance beneath his half-closed eye-lids. “They say that he determined to go up to Dublin, and see the Lord Lieutenant, and ask him for a free pardon for Mark.”
Hemsworth sprung up in the bed at these words, as if he had been stung.
“And who says this, Wylie?”
“I believe I was the first that said so myself,” said Wylie, affecting modesty; “when Kerry told me, that the old man packed up a court dress and a sword.”
“You're right, Sam; there's not a doubt of it. How long is this ago?”