Uncle Ulick lifted up his powerful voice. "Where's the mare?" he shouted.
James McMurrough shrugged his shoulders, and a moment later the riders came up and the tale was told. The three young men had halted at the hedge tavern at Brocktown, where their road ran out of the road to Tralee. There were four men drinking in the house, who seemed to take no notice of them. But when The McMurrough and his companions went to the shed beside the house to draw out their horses, the men followed, challenged them for Papists, threw down five pounds in gold, and seized the mare. The four were armed, and resistance was useless.
The story was received with a volley of oaths and curses. "But by the Holy," Uncle Ulick flamed up, "I'd have hung on their heels and raised the country! By G—d, I would!"
"Ay, ay! The thieves of the world!"
"They took the big road by Tralee," James McMurrough explained sulkily. "What was the use?"
"Were there no men working in the bogs?"
"There were none near by, to be sure," Morty said. "But I'd a notion if we followed them we might light on one friend or another—'twas in Kerry, after all!"
"'Twas not more than nine miles English from here!" Uncle Ulick cried.
"That was just what I thought," Morty continued with some hesitation. "Just that, but——" And his eye transferred the burden to The McMurrough.
James answered with an oath. "A nice time this to be bringing the soldiers upon us," he cried, "when, bedad, if the time ever was, we want no trouble with the Englishry! What's the use of crying over spilt milk? I'll give you another mare."