‘Clean daft wi’ joy!’ cried the old man. ‘Gie’s your hand, man!’ He seized Blake’s hand and wrung it heartily. ‘By the piper that played before Moses, ye’re the Reverend Mr. Blake still!—and by that same token Moya Macartney is Lady Kilpatrick, and Desmond Macartney is Desmond Consel-tine, his lordship’s son and heir!’
The mention of the name of Conseltine electrified Blake. He clutched his whisky-muddled head in both hands, staring wildly before him.
‘My God!’ he cried suddenly, ‘is it dreamin’ that I am? No, by the Lord, ’tis no dream, sir! Get up, man, get up! ’Tis no time to be sittin’ here! They mean mischief—already it may be too late!’
‘Too late! Too late for what?’ cried the old man.
‘Richard Conseltine and his boy, and Feagus the attorney—bad cess to the lot of ’em—were here this forenoon. They know Moya’s alive! They know where she lives! Oh, my head, my head! what was it the blackguards said? Ah!’ he screamed, ‘the mill! ’tis at Larry’s mill that Moya’s living!’
‘Yes!’ cried Peebles. ‘She’s there. But what of that? Speak, man! what is it?’
‘They mean to burn the mill, and her with it!’ cried Blake. ‘For the love o’ God, run and find Desmond, and get Moya out o’ the place. ’Twas here that they plotted it. Man alive, I believe they mean murder!’
‘Murder!’ gasped Peebles.
‘Isn’t it life or death to them to keep Moya out o’ the way? Run, man! Run every step o’ the road! Ye’ve time to save her yet. They daren’t try it before nightfall. Doolan’s farm is on the way, and ye’ll find Desmond there. If ever ye loved him, run!’
Peebles, knowing the men with whom he had to deal, needed no further warning, but after a few more hasty words with Blake, ran rather than walked from Blake’s Hall.