“You 'll hear him now, then. The fellows about curse at him half the day to be silent, but he does n't mind them, but sings away. The only quiet moment he gives them is while he's smoking.”
“Ah, yes! he loves smoking.”
“There—stop. Listen. Do you hear him? he's at it now.” Skeff halted, and could hear the sound of a full deep voice, from a window overhead, in one of those prolonged and melancholy cadences which Irish airs abound in.
“Wherever he got such doleful music I can't tell, but he has a dozen chants like that.”
Though Skeff could not distinguish the sounds, nor recognize the voice of his friend, the thought that it was poor Tony who was there singing in his solitude, maimed and suffering, without one near to comfort him, so overwhelmed him that he staggered towards a bench, and sat down sick and faint.
“Go up and say that a friend, a dear friend, has come from Naples to see him; and if he is not too nervous or too much agitated, tell him my name; here it is.” The friar took the card and hurried forward on his mission. In less time than Skeff thought it possible for him to have arrived, Pantaleo called out from the window, “Come along; he is quite ready to see you, though he doesn't remember you.”
Skeff fell back upon the seat at the last words. “Not remember me! my poor Tony,—my poor, poor fellow,—how changed and shattered you must be, to have forgotten me!” With a great effort he rallied, entered the gate, and mounted the stairs,—slowly, indeed, and like one who dreaded the scene that lay before him. Pantaleo met him at the top, and, seeing his agitation, gave him his arm for support. “Don't be nervous,” said he, “your friend is doing capitally; he is out on the terrace in an armchair, and looks as jolly as a cardinal.”
Summoning all his courage, Skeflf walked bravely forwards, passed down the long aisle, crowded with sick and wounded on either side, and passed out upon a balcony at the end, where, with his back towards him, a man sat looking out over the landscape.
“Tony, Tony!” said Skeffy, coming close. The man turned his head, and Skeff saw a massive-looking face, all covered with black hair, and a forehead marked by a sabre cut. “This is not my friend. This is not Tony!” cried he, in disappointment. “No, sir; I'm Rory Quin, the man that was with him,” said the wounded man, submissively.
“And where is he himself? Where is Tony?” cried he.