“Mahn, I scorrun it,” cried our visitor. “I have thrown off all fealty years ago, and am a free Irishman, and captain of the body of brave men who are going to dhrive the tyranny of England out of this colony for ever.”
“This is all news to me, sir,” said my father coldly.
“Is it, sor?” said our visitor mockingly. “Then I’m proud to be the bearer of the great news.”
“Do you mean to tell me, then,” said my father, “that there is war declared by England against the Boers?”
“No, sor,” cried the fellow insolently; “but I tell you that we have declared war again’ the brutal Saxon.”
“We, sir?” said my father gravely. “But you are one of the Queen’s servants—an Irishman.”
“Nothing of the sort, sor. I disown England; I disowned her when I came out here to throw meself into the arrums of the brave, suffering, pathriotic race around me, and placed my sword at their service.”
“Then you are a soldier, I presume?” said my father.
“I was tin years in the arrmy, sor,” said our visitor, drawing himself up and clapping his hand upon his chest. “Look at thim,” he continued, pointing to his followers drawn up in line. “A part of my following, and as fine irrigular cavalry as ever threw leg over saddle.—Look here, young man, ye’re in luck, for ye’ll have the honour of serving in Captain Eustace Moriarty’s troop.”
“You are Captain Eustace Moriarty?” said my father.