“My own hackney is here in the stable. If his honour likes him, I'll sell him; but he's a fancy beast, and must have a fancy price.”
“Has he strength and speed for a fast ride,” said Talbot, “and will his condition bear it?”
“I'll answer for it—you may push on to Cork in a hand gallop, if you give him ten minutes' rest, and a glass of whiskey at Macroom.”
“That's enough—what's his price?”
“Take a look at him first,” replied Lanty, “for if you are judge of a beast, you'll not refuse what I ask you.” With these words he lighted a candle, and placed it in an old iron lantern, which hung against the wall, and opening a small door at the back of the cabin, proceeded, by a narrow passage cut in the rock, towards the stable, followed by Talbot, Flahault remaining where he was, as if sunk in meditation. Scarcely, however, had the two figures disappeared in the distance, when he shook Mary violently by the shoulder, and whispered in a quick, but collected tone—
“Mary—Mary, I say—is that fellow all safe?”
“Ay is he safe,” said she, resuming her wonted calmness in a second. “Why do you ask now?”
“I'll tell you why—for myself I care not a sous—I'm here to-day, away to-morrow—but Talbot's deep in the business—his neck's in the halter—can we trust Lawler on his account—a man of rank and large fortune as he is, cannot be spared—what say you?”
“You may trust him, Captain,” said Mary, “he knows his life would not be his own two hours if he turned informer—and then this Mr. Talbot, he's a great man you tell me?”
“He's a near kinsman of a great peer, and has a heavy stake in the game—that's all I know, Mary—and, indeed, the present voyage was more to bring him over, than any thing else—but hush, here they come.”