“Send for him at least,” said his daughter, as with an effort she restrained the emotion that agitated her; “speak to him yourself.”
“To what end, my child, if he really is innocent?”
“Oh! yes, indeed—indeed he is,” she exclaimed, as the tears at length fell fast upon heir cheek.
“Well then, be it so,” said Sir Marmaduke, as he rung the bell, and ordered Terry to be sent for.
While Miss Travers sat with her head buried in her hands, her father paced slowly up and down the room; and so absorbed was he in his thoughts, that he had not noticed Terry, who had meanwhile entered the room, and now stood respectfully beside, the door. When the old man's eyes did fall on him, he started back, with horror and astonishment. The poor fellow's clothes were actually reduced to a mass of burned rags—one sleeve was completely gone, and, there, could be seen his bare arm scorched and blackened by the fire—a bandage of coarse linen wrapping the hand and fingers—a deep cut marked his brow—and his hair was still matted and clotted with the blood—awhile his face was of the colour of death itself.
“Can you doubt him now, father,” whispered the young girl, as she gazed on the poor fellow, whose wandering eyes roamed over the ornaments of the chamber, in total unconsciousness of himself and his sufferings.
“Well, Terry,” said Sir Marmaduke after a pause, “what account do you give of last night's business?”
“That's a picture of Keim-an-Eigh,” said Terry, as he fixed his large eyes, open to their widest extent, on a framed drawing on the wall. “There's the Eagle's Cliff, and that's Murrow Waterfall—and there's the lake—ay, and see if there isn't a boat on it. Well, well, but it's beautiful—one could walk up the shepherd's path there, where the goat is—ay, there's a fellow going up—musha, that's me—I'm going over to Cubber-na-creena, by the short cut.”