“You are an O’Neill?” said I.
“Who told you so?” growled he in Irish; and I guessed from the look of him that he was the man I wanted.
I signalled to two of my men to dismount and seize him.
“Now,” said I, fumbling my pistol, “time presses. Tell me which way the O’Neill has gone.”
“How do I know?” said he.
I cocked my pistol and laid it across my saddle.
“He went to Dublin, a month since,” said the fellow, quickly.
“And the English Captain?”
He growled a curse, and said:
“He passed here last night for Tyrone’s country.”