"Send the Irish beggar hence at once then, will you?" he answered furiously, flinging away his whip as he spoke, and, tearing his rein by main force from Nellie's grasp, he galloped rapidly down the hill.
Instead of following him, the girl backed her horse further into the recess in order to make room, and then waved her hand with the gesture of an empress to the others to pass on. With the exception of Ormiston they all obeyed, and no sooner had they got to a little distance than she flung herself off her horse, and, tossing the reins to her companion, threw herself into the arms of the astonished Nellie, exclaiming:
"O my God, my God! and these are the deeds that we do in thy name! When wilt thou arise and come to judgment?"
"Nay, grieve not thus, dear lady," said Nellie, generously forgetting her own great wrongs at the sight of such voluntary humiliation. "You at any rate have no cause to grieve, for willingly you have done no wrong."
"Call me not lady; I am but a girl, a woman like yourself; only"—she added with a touch of pride so like humility that it was almost as beautiful—"only, probably, of meaner nature, and certainly of less lofty lineage. What can I do for you? Alas! alas! why do I ask, for what can I do? Shelter, except in my father's house, I have none to offer; and in that, after what he has said just now, I could not even ensure your lives."
Here the young officer, who had by this time dismounted and approached the girl, endeavored to insinuate his purse into her hands; but she shook her head impatiently, and said, "Money! money! of what use can money be in such wilds as these?"
Nevertheless, on second thoughts, she took the purse, and would, perhaps, in a hesitating, shame-faced sort of way, have offered it to Nellie, if the latter had not said decidedly:
"As you say, dear lady, it would be worse than useless. Neither are we beggars. We did but seek what we thought to be our own. And now," she added sadly, "we ask still less—even that which the very beggars are thought to have a right to claim—but a shelter for a single night."
"And even that I cannot give you," said the girl disconsolately; "but at least," she added suddenly, in a brighter tone, "I think I can tell you where to find that." She pointed with her whip to a narrow path branching off a little lower down the hill, and leading apparently in the direction of the sea. "Follow that path—it is neither long nor difficult—and it will lead you to the waters of the creek below. At the very foot of the hill, where the path ends, you will find a hut; if empty, it will at least give you shelter; if otherwise, its owner will, I doubt not, make you welcome. He ought at least," she added quickly, "for he also has lost something. Trust me, you are not the only ones whom we have robbed for the achievement of our own greatness. Farewell! and if ever you pray for your enemies, put us among the worst and foremost."