“Come out, O’Mahony, an’ spake to us! We’re dyin’ for a sight of you!”
The elder man had lifted his head and listened. Then he squinted and blinked his eyelids convulsively and turned his head away, but not before Bernard had caught the glint of moisture in his eyes.
The young man had not been conscious of being specially moved by what was happening. All at once he could feel his pulses vibrating like the strings of a harp. His heart had come up into his throat. Nothing was visible to him but the stormy affection which Muirisc bore for this war-born, weather-beaten old impostor. And, clearly enough, he himself was thinking of only that.
Bernard rose and stepped to the hearth, instinctively holding one of his hands backward over the fire, though the room was uncomfortably hot.
“They’re calling for you outside, sir,” he said, almost deferentially.
The remark seemed stupid after he had made it, but nothing else had come to his tongue.
The lurking softness in his tone caught the other’s ear, and he turned about fiercely.
“See here!” he said, between his teeth. “How much more of this is there going to be? I’ll fight you where you stand—here!—now!—old as I am—or I’ll—I’ll do something else—anything else—but d——m me if I’ll take any slack or soft-soap from you!”
This unexpected resentment of his sympathetic mood impressed Bernard curiously. Without hesitation, he stretched forth his hand. No responsive gesture was offered, but he went on, not heeding this. .
“My dear sir,” he said, “they are calling for you, as I said. They are hollering for ‘The O’Mahony of Muirisc.’ You are The O’Mahony of Muirisc, and will be till you die. You hear me!”