“This is a bad day’s work you’ve done, sir, and bad luck to you,” said some one quite near.
Billie opened her eyes and tried to sit up, but her head seemed to be weighted with lead and there was a pain in her side.
Miss Campbell was kneeling beside her dabbing her face with a wet handkerchief. Elinor and Nancy were chafing her wrists, while Mary sat at her feet and gazed at her with the sorrowful expression of one who is looking upon the face of a dead friend.
“Nonsense,” said another voice, and Billie, twisting her head, saw that it was Feargus O’Connor who spoke, “do you think I’m the man to stand by while a mad bull charges a party of ladies?”
Never had his Irish brogue been more distinct than at that moment.
“Ye might ha’ winged him without killin’ ‘im dead. Five hundred pounds he were worth, and no less. A grand animal! What will His Grace say to this day’s doin’s, I wonder?”
“Whoever he is, if he has any manhood in his soul, he’ll say I did right,” cried Feargus with a laugh. “Are five ladies to be gored to death for the sake of a few pounds of beef? You English are all alike. Afraid to call your souls your own; afraid to do right; afraid to save a life because of what some lord can do to you. You’re a poor set of cringing peasants, that’s what you are. Do you think I’m afraid of having defended five ladies against a mad bull? Bring on ‘His Grace,’ whoever he is. I’ll tell him so to his face.”
Feargus had become very excited with the injustice of the men’s views. He gesticulated like a speech maker and his voice had an oratorical ring.
“And who, pray, is the owner of this dead creature?” demanded Miss Campbell, rising with dignity from her ministrations to Billie.
“The Duke of Kilkenty, ma’am.”