Gheena said, "Listen."
Then there was a pause in conversation filled by prayer.
"It is the Masther's cyar," declaimed Anne the cook. "I'd know her in Heaven."
"They took her off him," gulped Mary Kate, the kitchenmaid, who was in the throes of Ave Marias. "He is kilt, the craythur. See the empty sate."
"An' there is some lurking outside," breathed Phil. "I can hear them in the shrubs. I tell ye wasn't it the great plan entirely to kape us safe? The poor ould Masther, the craythur."
His master's head, veiled by a flapping laurel leaf, suddenly issued from the thicket, and the voice which issued from behind it did not seem to be discussing Germans.
"God above us, did they do ye a harrum, sir?" wailed Anne from the window, putting out her kindly face for a second. "An' ye too, Bayly? God be praised for ye're lives."
"The two eyes out of me head," replied Dayly—Dearest was incoherent—"and the Masther's nose the size of two, an' Misther Stafford picked in the ear."
"The haythens!" said the voice, now again behind the blind. "The Turks an' infidels. I hear Dayly. Could the polis——" She prayed loudly.
"Prayer won't mind ye, Mary Kate," counselled Phil, sobbing. "I hear Miss Gheena bawlin'."