Patsy took a step towards his uncle; he seemed fascinated, just as a mouse is fascinated by a cat.
“Come on.” said Con, “before I put my other leg over.”
“Sure, what do you want of me at all, at all?” said the unfortunate Patsy, advancing against his will; “what harm have I done you?—what ails—ouch!”
Con had suddenly seized him by the collar of his jacket and dragged him through the window.
“Speak a word, and you’re dead,” said his uncle.
They were in the midst of a clump of laurel bushes that grew almost up to the window.
“Come on now,” whispered Patsy’s uncle, dragging him along by the collar; “I’m not goin’ to hurt a feather of you, but if you scream it’s killed you’ll be. I’ve left the candle burnin’ on the chest o’ drawers, sure it’ll burn itself out. Come on now, and tread gentle.”
They took a path that led them round by the side of the house to the terrace in front.
It was a starlight night, brilliant almost, as if lit by the moon.
Con led the way down the terrace steps, and then, striking across the park, made for the beech woods on the right.