Alternately stooping to listen, or straining his eyes to see, he waited anxiously; and while canvassing in his mind every possible casualty he could think of to account for his absence, he half resolved on pushing forward down the glen, and, if necessary, venturing even the whole way to Carrig-na-curra. Just then a sound caught his ear—he listened, and at once recognized Terry's voice, as, singing some rude verse, he came hastening down the glen at his full speed.
“Ha! I thought you'd be here,” cried he, with delight in his countenance; “I knew you'd be just sitting there on that rock.”
“What has happened, then, Terry, that you wanted me?”
“It was a message a man in sailor's clothes gave me for your honour this morning, and, somehow, I forgot to tell you of it when you passed, though he charged me not to forget it.”
“What is it, Terry?”
“Ah, then, that's what I misremember, and I had it all right this morning. Let me think a bit.”
Mark repelled every symptom of impatience, for he well knew how the slightest evidences of dissatisfaction on his part would destroy every chance of the poor fellow regaining his memory, and he waited silently for several minutes. At last, thinking to aid his recollection, he said—
“The man was a smuggler, Terry?”
“He was, but I never saw him before. He came across from Kinsale, over the mountains. Botheration to him, why didn't he say more, and I wouldn't forget it now.” “Have patience, you'll think of it all by-and-by.”
“Maybe so. He was a droll-looking fellow, with a short cutlash at his side, and a hairy cap on his head; and he seemed to know yer honour well, for he said—