But fortune, which always favours the brave, sometimes favours the faithful.
On a certain fair day in Kilkenny old Jacob and his daughter were coming down the street towards their house, and Jack Langrishe by a fortunate accident, was coming in the opposite direction, when suddenly, up through a by-street almost in line with the place at which father and daughter had arrived, a spirited young horse, which had broken away from its groom, came galloping madly and was almost down on the old man when Jack threw himself between. The old man staggered back into the arms of his daughter and Jack fell under the horse’s hoofs.
Some onlookers rushed to his assistance and picked up Jack, apparently helpless, and he uttered a groan which would stir a heart of iron. The rascal all the time was no more hurt than you or I, but he caught a glimpse of the pale, questioning face of the maiden, and he thought he had discovered a way to her heart.
The old man, having recovered from his fright, could not refuse to thank his deliverer, although he was eager to get away from the crowd that was pressing around him and his fair charge.
“Oh, he’s murdered, sir—he’s murdered, Mr. Jacob,” said one of the crowd.
“Don’t you think we ought to bring him home, father?” whispered Dorothy in the old man’s ear.
The whispered suggestion brought the old man to himself as if a cold shower bath had unexpectedly fallen upon him.
“No, child; prithee, heed me. The young man must have friends. See, they know who he is.”
The last remark was justified by an observation from one of the persons who were lifting up Jack, and who said:
“He’s young Mr. Langrishe, of the Grange.”