"You know I am as jealous as ever poor Othello was."
"And with as little cause," she whispered softly, nestling her cheek against his shoulder.
The riders are at the gate now; in another minute they will be in the house; taking her in his arms, Launce kisses her and lets her go.
"My darling, how could I live till to-morrow if we had parted in anger now?" he whispers, looking at her with eager impassioned eyes.
Is it fancy, or does the face raised to his suddenly become harsh and wan? He looks down at her, startled; but there is no time for questions—the gentlemen are in the hall now, all talking and laughing at once, it would appear, by the noise they make, and he must go.
A light rain is falling as he passes out at the gate; he will have to walk home, for he sent his horse back by the groom more than an hour ago. The road is intensely dark; but that is nothing to him—he knows every inch of the way, just as he knows every inch of the dangerous path across the bog which he will have to take to reach Donaghmore. In spite of the wind there is a mist—a low clinging gray mist which hides the fields, nay, the very hedgerows between which he walks, and carries sounds—the bark of a dog, the shout of some lad out after his cattle[,] even the echoes of steps far ahead of him on the road—in the most marvelous manner. He is just turning aside to step down into the bog path when a dim shape flits out, like a ghost, from the midst and bars his way.
"Who is there?" he says gruffly. "What do you want?"
"Thank goodness, it's your honor's self!" a woman's voice answers timidly. "I am Patsy McCann, Mr. Launce. Ye mind me?"
"To be sure, Patsy! But what on earth brings you here at this hour, and in such a storm too? I hope you don't come so far from home to do your courting, Patsy?"
"Troth, an coorting's not in my head, yer honor! I've other and blacker thoughts to trouble me!"