“Gallagher!” he exclaimed, rising to his feet in evident panic; “what brings you here in this disguise? What have I ever done to you?”
“It is no disguise, your honour,” said I, in as reassuring a tone as I could assume. “I am Lieutenant Gallagher now.”
“And what do you want here? Why do you come in this sudden way? Go away, sir, and come when you are wanted! Where is my guard?”
And the poor man, whom the landlord at Rathmullan had well described as broken, actually put out his trembling hand to reach a pistol that lay on the table.
“You mistake me,” said I, paying no heed to the gesture. “I came merely on business, and if you like you can call your guard in. I’ve nothing to say that they need not hear.”
“You’re a good fellow, Gallagher,” said his honour, reassured. “I’m a little shaken in the nerves, and your coming was so sudden. I know you could mean no harm to your old benefactor.”
It made my heart bleed to hear him talk thus miserably, and I resolved to shorten the interview as much as I could.
“Stay and dine with me,” said he, as eager to keep me now as he was to be rid of me a minute ago; “it’s lonely, night after night, with no one to speak to and nowhere to go. You’ve heard, no doubt, I am a prisoner here.”
“How so, sir?”
“There’s a sentence of death out against me—not in the king’s name, but in the name of Tim Gallagher, your brother, captain of the rebels here.”