While thus she reasoned herself out of her despondency and nerved herself to endure the horror and desolation of her condition—a horror and desolation not even to be imagined by any one who has only known misery in the midst of their own kind, in the reach of human sympathy—she suddenly heard a cry—a sharp, wild, piercing cry, between a howl and a shriek and a wail—a cry of anguish and defiance and ferocity!
She started and listened.
It was repeated again, wilder, higher, fiercer than before.
She hoped—she truly did—that it came from some rapacious beast of prey, mad with hunger, which would set upon her and make short work of her and of the “dreary season” she dreaded so much.
It was reiterated in almost human tones.
How intently she bent her head and listened.
“Ow-oo! ow-oo! ow-oo!” it screamed.
Human tones, yet not articulate sounds.
“Och-hone! och-hone! och-hone!” it hallooed.
A sudden light dawned on Britomarte’s mind. She knew that these last sounds were never heard off the “Gem iv the Say,” except from some “exile of Erin.” She immediately arose and hurried down the beach in the direction from which the cries proceeded.