My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,
My dark Rosaleen!”
Suddenly Lady Clancarty started and half rose, interrupting the singer; but as Alice looked up in alarm, she sat down again, rosy and defiant.
“Pshaw!” she said; “go on, Alice, there comes Spencer himself, and, forsooth, I would not be frightened out of my pleasure.”
“But, my lady,” protested Alice, in confusion, “he will be dreadfully angry, he always is!”
“To be sure he will,” retorted Lady Betty, with a ripple of laughter, “therefore sing, lass, and I will sing, too.”
Alice still hesitated, her eyes on the figure of a young man who was coming swiftly across the lawn, but her mistress stamped her foot.
“Sing!” she commanded so sharply that Alice obeyed hastily, and in a moment the countess’ rich contralto joined her voice in singing the last passionate verse of “Roseen Dhu.”
“O! the Erne shall run red
With redundance of blood,