“Let me make sure of him, child; he’ll be up yet.” And thereupon Mrs. Herne, rising, leaned forward into the tent, and supporting herself against the pole, took aim in the direction of the farther end. “I will thrust out his eye,” said she; and, lunging with her stick, she would probably have accomplished her purpose had not at that moment the pole of the tent given way, whereupon she fell to the ground, the canvas falling upon her and her intended victim.
“Here’s a pretty affair, bebee,” screamed the girl.
“He’ll get up yet,” said Mrs. Herne, from beneath the canvas.
“Get up!—get up yourself; where are you? where is your—Here, there, bebee, here’s the door; there, make haste, they are coming.”
“He’ll get up yet,” said Mrs. Herne, recovering her breath, “the dook tells me so.”
“Never mind him or the dook; he is drabbed; come away, or we shall be grabbed—both of us.”
“One more blow, I know where his head lies.”
“You are mad, bebee; leave the fellow—gorgio avella.”
And thereupon the females hurried away.
A vehicle of some kind was evidently drawing nigh; in a little time it came alongside of the place where lay the fallen tent, and stopped suddenly. There was a silence for a moment, and then a parley ensued between two voices, one of which was that of a woman. It was not in English, but in a deep guttural tongue.