“You shall have your money—you've no objection to French gold, I hope—for several years I have seen no other,” said Talbot entering.
“I know it well,” said Lanty, “and would just as soon take it, as if it had King George on it.”
“You said forty pounds, fifty Louis is not far off—will that do?” said the youth, as he emptied a heavily filled purse of gold, upon the table, and pushed fifty pieces towards the horse-dealer.
“As well as the best, sir,” said Lanty, as he stored the money in his long leathern pocket-book, and placed it within his breast pocket.
“Will Mrs. M'Kelly accept this small token, as a keepsake,” said the youth, while he took from around his neck a fine gold chain of Venetian work, and threw it gallantly over Mary's; “this is the first shelter I have found, after a long exile from my native land; and you, my old comrade, I have left you the pistols you took a fancy too, they are in the lugger—and so, now good-bye, all, I must take to the road at once—I should like to have met the priest, but all chance of that seems over.”
Many and affectionate were the parting salutations between the young man and the others; for, although he had mingled but little in the evening's conversation, his mild and modest demeanour, added to the charm of his good looks, had won their favourable opinions; besides that he was pledged to a cause which had all their sympathies.
While the last good-bye was being spoken, Lanty had saddled and bridled the hackney, and led him to the door. The storm was still raging fiercely, and the night dark as ever.
“You'd better go a little ways up the glen, Lanty, beside him,” said Mary, as she looked out into the wild and dreary night.
“'Tis what I mean to do,” said Lanty, “I'll show him as far as the turn of the road.”
Though the stranger declined the proffered civility, Lanty was firm in his resolution, and the young man, vaulting lightly into the saddle, called out a last farewell: to the others, and rode on beside his guide.