“Dear old man!” he said; “he dared to strike you!”
“He didna mean ’t,” returned Andrew feebly. “Are ye winnin’ ower ’t, sir? He gae ye a terrible ane! Ye micht hae h’ard it across the street!”
“I shall be all right in a minute!” answered Donal, wiping the blood out of his eyes. “I’ve a good hard head, thank God!—But what has become of them?”
“Ye didna think he wud be waitin’ to see ’s come to oorsel’s!” said the cobbler.
With Donal’s help, and great difficulty, he rose, and they stood looking at each other through the starlight, bewildered and uncertain. The cobbler was the first to recover his wits.
“It’s o’ no mainner of use,” he said, “to rouse the castel wi’ hue an’ cry! What hae we to say but ’at we faund the twa i’ the gairden thegither! It wud but raise a clash—the which, fable or fac’, wud do naething for naebody! His lordship maun be loot ken, as ye say; but wull his lordship believe ye, sir? I’m some i’ the min’ the yoong man ’s awa’ til ’s faither a’ready, to preejudice him again’ onything ye may say.”
“That makes it the more necessary,” said Donal, “that I should go at once to his lordship. He will fall out upon me for not having told him at once; but I must not mind that: if I were not to tell him now, he would have a good case against me.”
They were already walking towards the house, the old man giving a groan now and then. He could not go in, he said; he would walk gently on, and Donal would overtake him.
It was an hour and a half before Andrew got home, and Donal had not overtaken him.