“Say it like himself first, sir, av it's plazin' to ye,” said he, with a most imploring look of entreaty. “I do be glad to hear it out of the book.”
The youth, thus entreated, resumed the volume, and read on for several minutes without stopping.
“Oh, that's grand!” said the boy, in a burst of enthusiasm. “'Tis for all the world the way the thunder comes down the glen—moanin' first, far off on the mountains, and then swellin' into a big roar, and afterwards going clap! clap! like a giant clapping his hands. Did he kill the inimy, master dear?”
“No, he was killed himself, and his body dragged over the battlefield.”
“Wirra, wirra, wirra!” broke in the child, while he rung his hands, and burst forth into a torrent of tumultuous grief.
“He was killed, Mickey, and listen to the lament of his friends for his death.”
Scarcely had the youth read a few lines, when Sir Marmaduke, advancing a little farther, his shadow fell across the chamber. The youth sprang up at once, and came towards them. The flush of surprise—it might be, too, of shame—was on his features; but there was less of awkwardness than many might have exhibited in the manner of his address, as he said—
“Father Luke is from home, sir. He has been sent for to Ballyvourney—”
“You are his relation, I presume?” said Sir Marmaduke, without letting him finish his speech.
“I am his pupil,” replied the youth, with a tone in which offended pride was clearly confessed.