“Whence came she? Who was the lady?”
“Take care—take care,” said the youth in a solemn whisper, and with a steadfast look before him; “Derrybahn has given warning—the storm is coming. It is not for one so tender as you to tempt the river of the black valley.”
“Be still, my boy,” said the old man; “you must not speak thus; your head will ache if you take not rest—keep quiet.”
“Yes; my head, my head,” muttered he vaguely, repeating the words which clinked upon his mind. “She put her arm round my neck—There—there,” cried he, starting up wildly in his bed, “catch it—seize it—my feet are slipping—the rock moves—I can hold no longer; there—there,” and with a low moaning sigh he sunk back fainting on the pillow.
Sir Archibald applied all his efforts to enforce repose and rest; and having partially succeeded, hastened to the O'Donoghue's chamber, to confer with the boy's father on what steps should be taken to procure medical aid.
It was yet some hours earlier than the accustomed time of his waking, as the old man saw the thin and haggard face of Sir Archy peering between the curtains of his bed.
“Well, what is it?” said he, in some alarm at the unexpected sight. “Has Gubbins issued the distress? Are the scoundrels going to sell us out?”
“No, no; it is another matter brings me here,” replied M 'Nab, with a gravity even deeper than usual.
“That infernal bond! By God, I knew it; it never left my dreams these last three nights. Mark was too late, I suppose, or they wouldn't take the interest, and the poor fellow sold his mare to get the money.”
“Dinna fash about these things now,” said M'Nab with impatience, “It's that poor callant, Herbert—he's very ill—it's a fever he's caught. I'm thinking.”