“It’s a long way back, to those days,” said Lord Clancarty; “the skies were blue then. I’m a poor devil now, Denis, and like to die—” his voice died away, more from faintness than emotion, and after awhile he asked for water.
Denis rose and gave it to him, lifting his head as gently as a woman, and as he took the glass from the wounded man’s lips he turned his own head away—but not soon enough, a hot tear fell on the earl’s forehead.
“Saint Patrick, Denis, I must be far gone when you weep!” Clancarty said, touched in spite of himself, “I did not know you could, you old heart of oak!”
Denis brushed the moisture from his eyes.
“I remimber an ould man in County Kerry, me lord, who nivir shid a tear until his wife was coming out of a fit, and thin he took on loike anny wild gossoon. He’d bin gitting ready fer a wake an’ hed ter give it all up, and whin his neighbors accused him of it, he said he nivir wept unless a person was gitting well, an’ thin he wept fer joy—’tis so with me, me lord.”
Lord Clancarty smiled, turning his face to the wall. He was deeply touched at the simple fellow’s devotion. There was silence for awhile; the fire crackled and leaped up the chimney, lighting up the room just in time, for the single taper sputtered and went out.
It was at this time that Lady Clancarty and Sir Edward were searching the streets of Newmarket.
Lord Clancarty turned his head wearily and looking down at his own hand remembered.
“Denis,” he said in a low tone, “did you give the ring and the message to my lady?”
Denis had his back to him again, his square sturdy outline between him and the blaze.