CHAPTER X.
THE MOYCULLEN HOUNDS.
“On the first day of spring, in the year ’93,
The first recreation in this countheree,
The King’s counthry gintlemen o’er hills, dales, and rocks,
They rode out so gallant in search of a fox.”
Blackthorn looked sedately amiable as Tom led him up to the hall door next morning, and I felt as I looked at him that I might safely trust him to initiate me into the mysteries of cross-country riding in the county Cork.
The day was lovely—sunny and mild, with a lingering dampness in the air that told of light rain during the night. I settled myself in the saddle, intoxicated by the idea that I was actually going out hunting for the first time, though I could not help a tremor of anxiety as I wondered if Willy would find his confidence in me had been misplaced.
I could hear him now in the hall, knocking down umbrellas and sticks in search of his whip, and presently, in response to his shouts, old Roche came shuffling to his aid.
“I was putting up your sandwiches, sir,” he said.
“Go on, and give hers to Miss Theo, and hurry,” said Willy’s voice, in a tone indicative of exasperation.
Roche bustled out on to the steps with a small packet in his hand, a jovial smile on his face. He looked at me, and his face changed.
“My God! ’tis Master Owen himself!” he said, as if involuntarily. “I beg your pardon, miss,” he continued, coming down the steps and putting the sandwiches into the saddle-pocket. “I suppose ’twas the man’s hat, and the sight of you up on the horse, made me think of the young master, as we called your father.”