“And yerself will not brathe a syllable that will lave them suspict I’m anything to themselves, Misthress Stuart?” he persevered, turning to Palma.
“Not a syllable, O’Melaghlin,” she answered.
This funny persecution ceased for the time, to be renewed as soon as they landed at Liverpool, and continued all the way from that city to York, and from there to Chuxton.
“Not a hint, not a breath, not a look, to bethray to the childer that they behold in me the father of them, and a discindint of the ancient kings of Meath,” he said, as the train drew into the Chuxton station.
“‘Not a hint, not a breath, not a look’ from us shall betray your secret, O’Melaghlin,” Cleve assured him.
“No, indeed,” Palma added.
“Be the powers, if ye bethray me, I nivir spake to aither of yez again.”
“There,” said Stuart, as they all rose to leave the train, “there is Mr. Randolph Hay himself come in the barouche to meet us.”
“Where?” demanded The O’Melaghlin.
“There, on the other side of the road. That gentleman in the open carriage with the fine bays and the footman in russet livery,” replied Cleve, pointing to the “turnout.”