‘Lord save us!’ cried Peebles. ‘’Tis himself.’
‘Who?’ cried Moya wildly. ‘Desmond? My son?’
‘Ay! your son Desmond. Wheest, woman! He’s coming this way.’
‘Though waves roll between us, sweet star of my
love,
Thy voice calls unto me——’
Desmond’s voice rose again as he spoke, nearer and more distinct.
‘Mr. Peebles!’ he cried, pausing in his song to scrutinize his old friend’s figure in the moonlight. ‘It’s late for you to be out here among the graves. Who’s that with ye?’
Peebles hesitated. Moya touched him lightly on the arm.
‘It’s just a poor peasant body. She’s strange to these parts, and was asking the way.’