“Biddy McQuilkin’s!” exclaimed she, with a start of surprise. “Surely she is dead.”
“So I thought; but she is not. She keeps an inn at the Hague; and has orders from one in high authority among the Irish rebels to take care of you.”
“As a prisoner?”
“Surely not; as a lady.”
She sighed.
“One peril never seems to be past,” said she, “but a new one looms ahead.”
“Courage,” said I. “Providence that saved you from the old peril will save you from the new.”
“Ah, Barry,” she said gently, “I begin to wonder if your name spells Providence to me. On that hateful ship I wondered often what had become of you. When I saw behind us at Malin a red flag waved on the cliff-top, I said, Could that be you, but for once too late to help?”
“It was,” I replied.
“I knew it!” she exclaimed almost triumphantly, “Night by night as we sailed further and further from home, I prayed Heaven to send you. Once when an English warship crossed our path, I pictured you among the crew, and wished they might capture us. Then when I got that wonderful little letter among the biscuits I knew my prayer was answered; and I troubled myself about nothing but to do your bidding. Poor Martin,” and she laughed again, “he was the sufferer by that.”