“It's not him, sir; it's only Donnel M'Gowan, the Black Prophet, that wants some law business.”
“Send him to the devil for law business What brings him here now? Tell him he shall have neither law nor justice from me. Did you send to his brother-in-law? May be he's there?”
“We did, sir. Sorra one of his seed, breed, or generation but we sent to. However, it's no use—off to America he's gone, or to the Isle o' White, at any rate.”
“May the devil sink America and the Isle of White both in the ocean, an' you, too; you scoundrel, and all of you! Only for the cursed crew that's about me, I'd have him here still—and he the only man that understood my wants and my wishes, and that could keep me comfortable and easy.”
“Troth, then, he hadn't an overly civil tongue in his head, sir,” replied the man; “for, when you and he, your honor, were together, there was little harmony to spare between you.”
“That was my own fault, you cur. No servant but himself would have had a day's patience with me. He never abused me but when I deserved it—did he?”
“No, your honor; I know he didn't, in troth.”
“You lie, you villain, you know no such thing. Here am I with my sore leg, and no one to dress it for me. Who's to help me upstairs or downstairs?—who's to be about me?—or, who cares for me, now that he's gone? Nobody—not a soul.”
“Doesn't Masther Richard, sir?”
“No sir; Master Richard gives himself little trouble about me. He has other plots and plans on his hands—other fish to fry—other irons in the fire. Masther Richard, sirra, doesn't care a curse if I was under the sod to-morrow, but would be glad of it; neither does, any one about me—but he did; and you infernal crew, you have driven him away from me.”