Pat came up and gave a heavy sigh.
“It’s dhreadful—it’s terrible. Och, wurrooooo!” Bart looked at him with an awful face, not daring to ask the question that was upon his lips, and now feeling sure that Pat had heard the worst.
“Och, what’ll we iver do?” cried Pat; “what’ll we iver do? Sure an me heart’s fairly broke widin me, so it is.”
“How did you find it out?” asked Bart, in a trembling voice.
“Sure an wasn’t it the praste himself that tould me,” said Pat, in a tone of voice that sounded like a wail of despair.
“The priest?” said Bart. “You saw him then—did you. Where—where is he?”
“The praste,” said Pat, dolefully; “sorra one o’ me knows. I seen him dhrivin off. I wor sleepin undher a tray behind the fince. I wasn’t goin to thrust mesilf in their leper houses, so I wasn’t.”
“You saw him. P—he has gone, has he—gone—to—to—to see about it,” stammered Bart, feverishly; “and what did he tell you?”
“Tell me?” said Pat, dubiously.
“Yes. You said you saw him.”