“Och, and be the Howly Vargin, and who’s this that comes a disthurbing of me paceful shlumber at the dead hour av night? Wirra, but I’ll sphring afoot and bate their heads wid me ole shillalah, so I will, as me name is Flick O’Flynn,” exclaimed the Hibernian, rising to a sitting posture and rubbing his eyes confusedly.
“I am sorry we have disturbed you,” said Frank Armond, apologetically, “but I hope you will pardon us for the unceremonious intrusion.”
“Ay, and thet I will,” replied O’Flynn, gaining his equilibrium of mind, “for it’s mees thet’s glad to say the likes av yees in this h’athing conthry, so it is, so it is.”
In the mean time, Colonel Sanford had stepped to Ebony’s side, and spoke in a lower and kinder voice:
“Forgive me, Ebony, for my rashness; but tell me truthfully, where is Florence Walraven?”
“Why should dis nigger know better dan enny body else, massa?”
“Because I know you assisted her to flee from home four years since, and now where is she?”
“Good Lor’ only knows. S’pecks she’s in heaben wid de angels,” replied the negro, apparently much surprised.
“Come, Ebony!” exclaimed Sanford, growing nervous and excited again. “Trifle not with me. You have lied to me already; you know where Florence is; you assisted her to flee. Speak, tell me the truth or your life shall pay—”
“Good Lor’, you misjudge dis nigger, Massa Sanfor’. Nebber sence poor Massa Walraven went into the army have I see’d de young missus, and when Massa Walraven was convictioned ob bein’ a traitor and taken to de Debbil’s Tarn—I means when he war punished so orfully—dis nigger run away into de mountain fear he be sarved so too, ’case he see’d something, and nebber hab I see’d de young missus, nor nobody, till dis blessed minit.”