“Foolish girl!” exclaimed her father, “you don't know what you're sayin'. Of coorse, Donnel, you'll not heed her words for, indeed, she hasn't come to herself yet. But, in God's name, where did this blood come from that's upon you and her?”
“You can't suppose, Jerry,” said Donnel, “that the poor girl's words would make me take any notice of them. She has been too much frightened, and won't know, maybe in a few minutes, that she spoke them at all.”
“That's thrue,” said her mother; “but with regard to the blood——”
She was about to proceed, when Mave rose up, and requested to be taken out of the room.
“Bring me to the kitchen,” said she, “I'm afraid; and see this blood, mother.”
Precisely as she spoke, a few drops of blood fell from her nose, which, of course, accounted for its appearance on Donnel's face, and probably for her terror also at his repulsive aspect.
“What makes you afeard of poor Donnel, asthore?” asked her mother—“a man that wouldn't injure a hair of your head, nor of one belongin' to you, an' never did.”
“Why, when my father,” she returned, “spoke about the coat there, an' just as Donnel started, I looked at it, an' seen it movin', I don't know why, but I got afeard of him.”
Sullivan held up the candle mechanically, as she spoke, towards the coat, upon which they all naturally gazed; but, whether from its dim flickering light, or the force of imagination, cannot be determined, one thing was certain, the coat appeared actually to move again, as if disturbed by some invisible hand. Again, also, the prophet involuntary started, but only for a single moment.
“Tut,” said he, “it's merely the unsteady light of the candle; show it here.”