“An enterprise! Pray, what is it?”
“Why, a tory-hunt; I am going to hunt down Shawn-na-Middogue, as he is called, and I think it will be rendering the country a service to get rid of him.”
Miss Riddle's face got pale as ashes; and she looked earnestly and solemnly into Woodward's face.
“Mr. Woodward,” said she, “would you oblige me with one simple request? Do not hunt down Shawn-na-Middogue: my uncle and I owe him our lives.”
“How is that, Miss Riddle?”
“Do you not know that my uncle was a tory hunter?”
“I have certainly heard so,” replied Woodward; “and I am, besides, aware of it from the admirable instructions which he gave me concerning the best method of hunting them down.”
“Yes, but did he encourage you in your determination of hunting down Shawn-na-Middogue?”
“No, certainly; but, on the contrary, advised me to pass him by—to have nothing to do with him.”
“Did he state his reasons for giving you such advice?”