Lanty arose from his comfortable corner with evident reluctance, and laid down his pipe with a half sigh, as he moved slowly towards the door of the cabin, which having unbarred he issued forth into the darkness.
“It's likely I'd hear any thing such a night as this,” grumbled he to himself, “with the trees snapping across, and the rocks tumbling down! It's a great storm entirely.”
“Is there any sign of them, Lanty?” cried Mary, as she held the door ajar, and peeped out into the gloomy night.
“I couldn't see my hand fornint me.”
“Do you hear nothing?”
“Faix I hear enough over my head; that was thunder! Is there any fear of it getting at the powder, Mary?”
“Divil a fear; don't be unasy about that,” said the stout-hearted Mary. “Can you see nothing at all?”
“Sorra a thing, barrin' the lights up at Carrig-na-curra; they're moving about there, at a wonderful rate. What's O'Donoghue doing at all?”
“'Tis the young boy, Herbert, is sick,” said Mary, as she opened the door to admit Lanty once more. “The poor child is in a fever. Kerry O'Leary was down here this evening for lemons for a drink for him. Poor Kerry! he was telling me, himself has a sore time of it, with that ould Scotchman that's up there; nothing ever was like him for scoulding, and barging, and abusing; and O'Donoghue now minds nothing inside or out, but sits all day long in the big chair, just as if he was asleep. Maybe he does take a nap sometimes, for he talks of bailiffs, and writs, and all them things. Poor ould man! it's a bad end, when the law comes with the grey hairs!”
“They've a big score with yourself, I'll be bound,” said Lanty inquiringly.