“Tell me all you know of what happened last night, Terry,” repeated Sir Marmaduke.
“It was a great fire, devil a doubt of it,” said Terry, eagerly; “the blaze from the big stack was twice as high as the roof; but when I put the wet sail of the boat on it, it all went into black smoke; it nearly choked me.”
“How did it catch fire first, Terry? can you tell us that?”
“They put a piece of tindir in it; I gave them an ould rag, and they rubbed it over with powder, and set it burning.'
“Who were they that did this?”
“The fellows that threw me down—what fine pistols they had, with silver all over them! They said that they would not beat me at all, and they didn't either. When I gave them the rag, they said, 'Now, my lad, we'll show you a fine fire;' and, true for them, I never seen a grander.”
In this vague, rambling strain, did Terry reply to every question put to him, his thoughts ever travelling in one narrow circle. Who they were that fired the haggard, how many, and what kind of appearance they wore, he knew nothing of whatever; for in addition to his natural imbecility of mind, the shock of the adventure, and the fever of his wounds and bruises, had utterly routed the small remnant of understanding which usually served to guide him.
To one question only did his manner evince hesitation and doubt in the answer, and that was, when Sir Marmaduke asked him, how it happened that he should have been up at the Lodge at so late an hour, since the doors were all locked and barred a considerable time previous.
Terry's face flushed scarlet at the question, and he made no reply; he stole a sharp, quick glance towards Miss Travers, beneath his eyelids, but as rapidly withdrew it again, when his colour grew deeper and deeper.
The old man marked the embarrassment, and all his suspicions were revived at once. “You must tell me this, Terry,” said he, in a voice of some impatience; “I insist upon knowing it.”