Mary had scarcely time to remove the remains of the supper, when Lanty re-entered the cabin.
“He's the noble-hearted fellow, any way,” said he, “and never took a shilling off the first price I asked him;” and with that he put his hand into his breast pocket to examine, once more, the strange coin of France. With a start, a tremendous oath broke from him—“My money—my pocket-book is lost,” exclaimed he, in wild excitement, while he ransacked pocket after pocket of his dress. “Bad luck to that glen, I dropt it out there, and with the torrent of water that's falling, it will never be found—och, murther, this is too bad.”
In vain the others endeavoured to comfort and console him—all their assurances of its safety, and the certainty of its being discovered the next morning, were in vain. Lanty re-lighted the lantern, and muttering maledictions on the weather, the road, and his? own politeness, he issued forth to search after his treasure, an occupation which, with all his perseverance, was unsuccessful; for when day was breaking, he was still groping along the road, cursing his hard fate, and every thing which had any share in inflicting it.
“The money is not the worst of it,” said Lanty, as he threw himself down, exhausted and worn out, on his bed. “The money's not the worst of it—there was papers in that book, I wouldn't have seen for double the amount.”
Long after the old smuggler was standing out to sea the next day, Lanty Lawler wandered backwards and forwards in the glen, now searching among the wet leaves that lay in heaps by the way side, or, equally in vain, sounding every rivulet and water-course which swept past. His search, was fruitless; and well it might be—the road was strewn with fragments of rocks and tree-tops for miles—while even yet the swollen stream tore wildly past, cutting up the causeway in its passage, and foaming on amid the wreck of the hurricane.
Yet the entire of that day did he persevere, regardless of the beating rain, and the cold, drifting wind, to pace to and fro, his heart bent upon recovering what he had lost.
“Yer sowl is set upon money; devil a doubt of it, Lanty,” said Mary, as dripping with wet,# and shaking with cold, he at last re-entered the cabin; “sorra one of me would go rooting there, for a crock of goold, if I was sure to find it.”
“It is not the money, Mary, I tould you before—it's something else was in the pocket-book,” said he, half angrily, while he sat down to brood in silence over his misfortune.
“'Tis a letter from your sweetheart, then,” said she, with a spice of jealous malice in her manner, for Lanty had more than once paid his addresses to Mary, whose wealth was reported to be something considerable.
“May be it is, and may be it is not,” was the cranky reply.