“Murther!” ejaculated Dinny, as a faint signal came from overhead. “Sure an’ I was niver cut out for a prophet afther all.”
“Dinny!—Captain Armstrong!” came from above.
“Good luck to ye, darlin’! kape on shpaking,” whispered Dinny, excitedly. “It does me good to hear ye; but niver mind the captain, darlin’. Shpake to me.”
“I came here—at great risk,” came down, as if the speaker was panting heavily. “There’s something wrong—I want to put you on your guard. Tell the captain. Quick! I dare not stay.”
“But, darlin’, what’s wrong? Whisht! shpake out, and let’s hear ye. Look at that, now! Why, she’s gone!”
For there was a faint rustling overhead, and then all was silence once again.
“Sure, sor, would ye look at me,” cried Dinny, with a most perplexed expression of countenance, “and tell me if I’m awake or it’s only a dhrame.”
“Dinny,” said Humphrey, “she would not have come in such haste if there had not been good cause. Go and warn the captain. Quick!”
The day passed without news, and, weary with his tedious pacing of his great cell, Humphrey Armstrong threw himself upon his couch, where he lay, with the great solemn face of the old stone idol seeming to loom down mysteriously from above.
It was not until the next morning that he saw Dinny again. The night had passed quietly, and the day found Humphrey still watching. He, however, dropped into a pleasant slumber as the sun rose, in which sleep he was still plunged when Dinny came.