“Master Harry himself!—and is it you?—We ask your pardon, your honour.”
The men were three of Sir Ulick’s workmen—Ormond forbad the carriage to follow. “For perhaps you are afraid of the noise disturbing Sir Ulick?” said be.
“No, plase your honour,” said the foremost man, “it will not disturb him—as well let the carriage come on—only,” whispered he, “best to send the hack postilions with their horses always to the inn, afore they’d learn any thing.”
Ormond walked on quickly, and as soon as he was out of hearing of the postilions again asked the men, “What news?—how is Sir Ulick?”
“Poor gentleman! he has had a deal of trouble—and no help for him,” said the man.
“Better tell him plain,” whispered the next. “Master Harry, Sir Ulick O’Shane’s trouble is over in this world, sir.”
“Is he—”
“Dead, he is, and cold, and in his coffin—this minute—and thanks be to God, if he is safe there even from them that are on the watch to seize on his body!—In the dread of them creditors, orders were given to keep the gates locked. He is dead since Tuesday, sir,—but hardly one knows it out of the castle—except us.”
Ormond walked on silently, while they followed, talking at intervals.
“There is a very great cry against him, sir, I hear, in Dublin,—and here in the country, too,” said one.