Never did any music sound so harmoniously in Clara's ears, as the father's rich deep brogue; and darting forwards she threw herself at his feet, and, clasping her arms round his knees, she exclaimed—"Oh! save me! I am Clara! Clara Montagu!"
"Clara!" cried Father Murphy, in the utmost astonishment. "Clara! why, what in the name of Heaven brings you out, child, at this hour of the night?"
"Oh! don't ask me, father," returned Clara, gasping for breath; "that is, I will tell you presently. But take me away; for the love of the blessed Virgin, save me from these men!"
"Come here, my child," said the Father, drawing her arm within his own, and walking away with her; "let us lave these people. And now," continued he, when they were already at some distance from the crowd, "you must tell me, child, what brings ye here?"
This question, though it was a very natural one for the friar to ask, was beyond Clara's power to answer. In fact, she trembled so dreadfully that she could scarcely stand; and when she attempted to speak, her teeth chattered in her head so violently, that she could not articulate a syllable. "Poor thing," muttered the compassionate priest, after waiting a few minutes in vain for an answer, "she'll be better presently."
All now was dark, and they walked slowly on some paces without speaking, when four bright flashes from a neighbouring clock announced the completion of some hour, and the next instant the solemn deep-toned bell distinctly pronounced the word "one," and then all again was silent.
"I had no fancy it was so late," said the father, whose disposition was naturally too cheerful to let him ever remain long silent.
"Did you think it was one o'clock, Clara? I little thought I should ever be wandering with you, dear, in the streets at such a time of night. I can't help fancying it's all a dream, any how: so speak, darling, if you can, and tell me all about it."
Clara felt still more faint, and only replied by clinging yet more firmly to the friar's arm. Father Murphy was frightened and thought she was going to die.—"Oh murther!" cried he, "what will I do? she brathing her last, sweet cratur, and nobody by to help her, and I not knowing how to comfort her."
The delicate form of Clara seemed every instant to become more heavy, as she still clung almost unconsciously to the friar's arm, and gasped feebly for breath.