“The O'Donoghue!” repeated Sir Marmaduke, vainly endeavouring in the confusion of the moment to recall the name, and where he had heard it.
“Ay, the O'Donoghue,” shouted a coarse voice near him, as a new figure rode up on a small mountain pony. “It oughtn't to be a strange name in these parts. Rouse yourself, Master Herbert, rouse up, my child—sure it isn't a wettin' would cow you this way?”
“What! Kerry, is this you?” said the youth faintly, as he looked around him with half-closed eyelids. “Where's my father?”
“Faix, he's snug at the parlour fire, my darlin', where his son ought to be, if he wasn't turning guide on the mountains, to the enemy of his kith and kin.”
These words were said in a whisper, but with an energy that made the boy start from the arms of those who bore him.
“Here's the pony, Master Herbert, get up on him, and be off at once; sure there isn't a blackguard there, with lace on his coat, wouldn't be laughing at your old clothes when the light comes.”
Sir Marmaduke and his daughter were a few paces in advance as these words were spoken, the old baronet giving directions for bestowing every care and attention on one he deemed his guest.
The boy, ashamed and offended both, yielded to the counsel, and suffered himself to be placed upon the saddle.
“Now, then, hould fast, and I'll guide him,” said Kerry, as elbowing the crowd right and left, he sprung forward at a run, and in less than a minute had disappeared in the darkness.
Sir Marmaduke became distracted at the loss of his benefactor, and message after message was despatched to bring him back, but all in vain; Kerry and his pony had already gained so much in advance, none could overtake them.