The girl neither turned to him nor spoke, but he could see the outline of her face as she bowed her head and gazed in silence at the murmuring water; and something in this sight seemed to answer him.
He strode swiftly to the other side of the vessel, and exultantly waved his handkerchief in signal to the boatmen on the shore.
CHAPTER XXIX—DIAMOND CUT PASTE.
The O’Mahony sat once more in the living-room of his castle—sat very much at his ease, with a cigar between his teeth, and his feet comfortably stretched out toward the blazing bank of turf on the stone hearth.
A great heap of papers lay upon the table at his elbow—the contents of O’Daly’s strong-box, the key to which he had brought with him from the vessel—but not a single band of red tape had been untied. The O’Mahony’s mood for investigation had exhausted itself in the work of getting the documents out. His hands were plunged deep into his trousers’ pockets now, and he gazed into the glowing peat.
His home-coming had been a thing to warm the most frigid heart. His own beat delightedly still at the thought of it. From time to time there reached his ears from the square without a vague braying noise, the sound of which curled his lips into the semblance of a grin. It seemed so droll to him that Muirisc should have a band—a fervent half-dozen of amateurs, with ancient and battered instruments which successive generations of regimental musicians bad pawned at Skibbereen or Bantry, and on which they played now, neither by note nor by ear, but solely by main strength.
The tumult of discord which they produced was dreadful, but The O’Mahony liked it. He had been pleasurably touched, too, by the wild enthusiasm of greeting with which Muirisc had met him when he disclosed himself on the main street, walking up to the police-station with Major Snaffle and Jerry. All the older inhabitants he knew, and shook hands with. The sight of younger people among them whom he did not know alone kept alive the recollection that he had been absent twelve long years. Old and young alike, and preceded by the hurriedly summoned band, they had followed him in triumphal procession when he came down the street again, with the liberated Jerry and Linsky at his heels. They were still outside, cheering and madly bawling their delight whenever the bandsmen stopped to take breath. Jerry, Linsky and the one-armed Malachy were out among them, broaching a cask of porter from the castle cellar; Mrs. Fergus and Mrs. Sullivan were in the kitchen cutting up bread and meat to go with the drink.
No wonder there were cheers! Small matter for marvel was it, either, that The O’Mahony smiled as he settled down still more lazily in his arm-chair and pushed his feet further toward the fire.