A nod from Mister Barton in acquiescence decided the matter, and the sergeant was seated.
“What's here, Mary?” said Barton, striking the large pot that hung over the fire with his foot.
“It's the boys' dinner, sir,” said the girl.
“I think it wouldn't be a bad job if we joined them,” replied he, laughingly,—“eh, sergeant?”
“There 'ill be enough for us all,” said Malone; “and I'm sure ye're welcome to it.”
The table was quickly spread, the places next the fire being reserved for the strangers; while Malone, unlocking a cupboard, took down a bottle of whiskey, which he placed before them, remarking, as he did so,—
“Don't be afeard, gentlemen, 'tis Parliament.”
“That 's right, Malone. I like a man to be loyal in these bad times; there's nothing like it. (Faith, Mary, you're a good cook; that's as savory a stew as ever I tasted.) Where 's Patsey now? I have n't seen him for some time.”
The girl's face grew dark red, and then became as suddenly pale; when, staggering back, she lifted her apron to her face, and leaned against the dresser.
“He's transported for life,” said Malone, in a deep, sepulchral voice, while all his efforts to conceal agitation were fruitless.