“Stroike ye, misthress! Stroike you!” blubbered the ci-devant stable-boy, as soon as his terror permitted him to speak. “Mother av the Lard! I didn’t mane the waypon for you at all, at all! I’ll sware it on the crass—or a whole stack av Bibles if yez say so. In trath misthress; I didn’t mane the tammyhauk for you!”
“Why have you brought it forth?” inquired the lady, half suspecting that she had made a mistake, and lowering her pistol as she became convinced of it. “Why have you thus armed yourself?”
“As I live, only to ixecute the ordhers, I’ve resaved—only to cut a branch off av the cyacktus yez see over yander, an phut it undher the tail av the owld mare. Shure yez won’t object to my doin’ that?”
In her turn, the lady became silent—surprised at the singular proposition.
The odd individual she saw before her, could not mean mischief. His looks, attitude, and gestures were grotesque, rather than threatening; provocative of mirth—not fear, or indignation.
“Silince gives consint. Thank ye,” said Phelim, as, no longer in fear of being shot down in his tracks, he ran straight across the lawn, and carried out to the letter, the parting injunctions of Zeb Stump.
The Mexican maiden hitherto held silent by surprise, remained so, on perceiving the absolute idleness of speech.
Further conversation was out of the question. What with the screaming of the mare—continuous from the moment the spinous crupper was inserted under her tail—the loud trampling of her hoofs as she “cavorted” over the turf—the dismal howling of the hound—and the responsive cries of the wild forest denizens—birds, beasts, insects, and reptiles—only the voice of a Stentor could have been heard!
What could be the purpose of the strange proceeding? How was it to terminate?
Isidora looked on in silent astonishment. She could do nothing else. So long as the infernal fracas continued, there was no chance to elicit an explanation from the queer creature who had caused it.