“Sure an’ the captain says he’ll tak’ care of us, darlin’, and avore long we’ll be sailing away over the salt say. It’s a white sail I’ve got in the boat, and—”
“Hist, Dinny, you’re talking too loudly, my man!” whispered Humphrey.
“Bedad and I am, sor. It’s that owld sarpint of a tongue o’ mine. Bad luck to it for being given me wrong. Faix and it belonged to some woman by rights.”
They pressed on, and at the end of what seemed to be an interminably long time, Humphrey whispered:
“Are we near the sea?”
“Close to it now, sor. If it was Oireland ye’d hear the bating of the waves upon the shore; but they’re too hot and wake in this counthry to do more than give a bit of a lap on the sands.”
Another weary length of time passed, and still the sea-shore was not reached, but they were evidently near now, for the dull murmur of the billows in the sheltered gulf was plainly to be heard; and Mistress Greenheys, who, in spite of her bravery and decision, had begun to utter a low hysterical sob from time to time and hang more heavily upon her companions’ arms, took courage at the thought of the safety the sea offered, and pressed sturdily forward for another few hundred yards and then stopped short.
“What is it, darlin’?” whispered Dinny.
“Voices!” she replied softly.
“Yes; our own,” said Dinny. “There can’t be anny others here.”