“Then he might die of the wound, and fever attending it?”
“Most certainly he might. He might be carried off in twenty-four hours.”
“Thank you for your visit, Mr B—,” replied Rainscourt, who did not wish for his further company. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, sir,” replied the surgeon, as Rainscourt politely bowed him out of the room.
Rainscourt again paced up and down. “He might die of this fever and wound in twenty-four hours. There could be nothing surprising in it;” and as he cogitated the demon entered his soul. He sat down and pressed his hands to his burning temples, as he rested his elbows on the table many minutes, perplexed in a chaotic labyrinth of evil thoughts, till the fiend pointed out the path which must be pursued.
He summoned the old nurse. Those who have lived in, or are acquainted with the peculiarities and customs of the sister kingdom, must know that the attachment of the lower Irish to their masters amounts to almost self-devotion. Norah had nursed Rainscourt at her breast, and, remaining in the family, had presided over the cradle of Emily—adhering to Rainscourt in his poverty, and, now, in the winter of her days basking in the sun of his prosperity.
“The blessings of the day upon the master,” said the old woman as she entered.
Rainscourt locked the door. “Norah,” said he, “I have bad news to tell you. Are you aware that the castle is no longer mine?”
“The castle no longer yours! Och hone,” replied the old woman, opening her eyes wide with astonishment.
“That I am a beggar, and shall be sent to prison?”