“What is that?” the wounded man asked sharply.
“Our horses, sir,” replied Denis, still kneeling at the hearth; “they’re in the shed outside, me lord, an’ indade ’tis fitter fer thim than fer yer lordship here.”
Clancarty smiled sadly. “It matters little, Denis, and is like to matter less. How far are we from Newmarket?”
“Not far, sir, this house stands off th’ road ter Bishop-Stortford, a half mile loike from the road, in a patch of timber; a very pretty hiding-place—I’ve hed me eye on it fer a couple of wakes.”
“You thought I would come to this, then? Ah, Denis, I fear you know me too well, old rogue!”
“Indade, sir, I’ve known ye from a boy in Munster, an’ I nivir knew ye to take care of yerself. Faix, it’s a broken head ye’ll be afther havin’ more often thin a whole wan.”
Clancarty laughed softly, his feverish eyes on the fire.
“Denis,” he said dreamily, “do you remember the wild rides over the green fields of Ireland?”
Denis bent low over the hearth fanning the blaze, fighting the damp and the green wood.
“I’m afther remimbering, yer lordship,” he replied hoarsely.