Chapter Thirty Six.
The fight in Kilgorman.
I had not long to wait before the footsteps sounded in the long passage which led to the kitchen, and a dim streak of light appeared at the doorway. Two of the company, rather by their voices than their faces, I recognised—one as Martin, the other as Jake Finn, the treasurer of the rebels, whom I had last seen in this very place on the night that Paddy Corkill was appointed to waylay and shoot his honour on the Black Hill Road. The other two, who carried cutlasses at their belts, were strangers to me, but seemed to be men of importance in the rebel business. Evidently a fifth man was expected.
“Sure, he’ll come,” said one.
“It’s myself met him this blessed day no farther than Malin, and he promised he’d be here.”
“Did he know this about Gorman?”
“How should he? Sure, I didn’t know it myself. Besides, he’s just from the Foyle, and our news doesn’t travel east.”
“How will he take it?”
“Whisht!” cried Martin. “There he is.”
Three low taps sounded at the window, and Martin, taking the candle, hurried down the passage to admit the new arrival.