“Sure enough he may die,” replied the old woman, brightening up at the idea. “It’s a bad fever that’s on him.”
“And he may recover, Norah.”
“Sure enough he may recover,” replied she, mournfully; “he’s but young blood.”
“Now, Norah, do you love your master—do you love your young mistress?”
“Do I love the master and the mistress?” replied the old woman indignantly; “and it’s you that’s after asking me such a question!”
“Can you bear to see us turned out of house and home—to be cast on the wide world with poverty and rags? Will you permit it, when, by assisting me, you can prevent it?”
“Can I bear it? Will I assist?—tell me the thing that you’d have me do, that’s all.”
“I said that the wounded person might die.—Norah, he must die.”
The old woman looked up earnestly at Rainscourt’s face, as if to understand him. “I see!”—then remaining with her head down for some time, as if in cogitation; she again looked up. “Will father O’Sullivan give me absolution for that?”
“He will—he shall—I will pay for ten thousand masses for your soul over and above.”