Moya had gathered her shawl about her face again, and a sob broke from her.
‘Sure she’s in trouble,’ Desmond added pityingly.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Moya, conquering herself, ‘I’m in bitter trouble. And by the same token there’s trouble in your heart too.’
‘In mine?’ said Desmond, forcing a laugh, not very successfully.
‘Ye favour one I used to know,’ said Moya. ‘Will ye tell me your name, sir?’
‘My name?’ said Desmond hesitatingly. ‘Well, why not? My name’s Desmond Macartney.’
‘Desmond Macartney!’ the woman repeated. ‘I’ll not forget it. Sure I’d once a boy of me own, as swate to look upon as yourself. It’s proud your mother should be of such a son.’
‘My mother is dead,’ said Desmond. ‘She died long ago—when I was but a child. Good-night t’ ye, and God help ye through your trouble.’
‘Where are you going, Desmond?’ asked Peebles.
‘To the farm yonder; they’ll put me up for the night.’