‘And may God bless you!’ said Desmond, rising, deeply touched by the solemn words and the deep rich voice which had spoken them.
‘And now,’ said Moya, ‘will ye let a poor crathure kiss your forehead, for the sake of her own son that she’ll never see again?’ She took his head between her hands and pressed her lips to his brow in a long embrace. ‘The Lord be with you, Desmond Macartney.’
With no other word, she turned and left the graveyard, Peebles following her after a hasty reminder to Desmond of their engagement for the morrow.
It was not till some minutes later, when Desmond’s voice rose again on the air at a considerable distance, and the figures of Moya and Peebles had disappeared, that Feagus rose to his feet.
‘Monomondiaoul!’ he said softly to himself. ‘Moya Macartney alive! And what will me lord and Mr. Conseltine say to that, I wonder?’
CHAPTER VII.—BLAKE, OF BLAKE’S HALL.
Lady Dulcie, wending her way back from the shebeen to the Castle under the escort of Rosie and the faithful Larry, dried her tears resolutely, and did her best—no hard task at sweet eighteen, with love as an ally—to look on the bright side of things. Desmond would never leave her for long, of that she felt assured. He might go out into the world to seek his fortune, and, of course, one so brave, generous, handsome, and altogether admirable, could hardly fail to find it; but his success or failure would never, she told herself, make any difference to her. The day was not far off when she would be her own mistress, and then no spite of accident or design should hold her from her lover’s arms.
As she and her companions came upon the confines of the Castle grounds two dusky figures approached them, and she made out by the faint light of the rising moon that they were Mr. Conseltine and his son Richard. They saluted her silently, to her great relief, and she passed by.