The old nurse came forward to where I sat, very dismal and complaining.
“Ochone!” said she. “This has been a sore journey, Master Humphrey. My bones ache and my spirits are clean gone. Musha! it’s myself would fain be back in London town after all. There’ll be none to know Judy O’Cahan here; and I’ve nigh forgotten the speech and manners of the place mysel’. And my heart sinks for the sweet maiden.”
“Why, what ails her?” I asked. “Has she not come to her father’s house?”
“Ay, ay, so it’s called, so it’s called. ’Tis Turlogh owns Castleroe, but ’tis my Lady of Cantire owns Turlogh. He durst not bless himself if she forbid. She wants no English step-daughters, I warrant ye; or if she do, ’twill be to buy and sell with, and further her own greedy plans. I know my Lady; and I know how it will fare with my sweet maid. I tell thee, Master Humphrey, Turlogh, brave lad as he was, must now do as his grand Lady bids, and ’twere better far the maiden had stayed in her nunnery school.”
“Why, Judy,” said I, “you forget he sent to England for her; and that now, since this voyage began, she has found a protector who will ease both the lord and lady of Castleroe of her charge.”
She laughed.
“Little you know, master ’prentice. But there comes the dawn.”
Sure enough, in the east, the grey crept up the sky; and at the same time the banks on either side of us rose steeply, while the roar of a cataract ahead warned us that our journey’s end was come.
We waited yet another hour, moored under the bank till the sun lifted his forehead above the hill. Then the note of a bugle close at hand startled us, and Ludar bade us disembark.
Castleroe was a house perched strongly on the western bank of the river, with a moat round, and a drawbridge separating the outer courtyard from the house itself.