“Ah,” said Barney, his whole manner immediately changing, “have you heard from him, poor fellow?”
“Torley's gone to the mountains,” she replied, “and—but here he is. Well, Torley, what news, asthore?”
Her husband having passed a friendly greeting to Barney, sat down, and having taken off his hat, lifted the skirt of his cothamore (big coat) and wiped the perspiration off his large and manly forehead, on which, however, were the traces of deep care. He did not speak for some time, but at length said:
“Bridget, give me a drink.”
His wife took a wooden noggin, which she dipped into a churn and handed him. Having finished it at a draught, he wiped his mouth with his gathered, palm, breathed deeply, but was still silent.
“Torley, did you hear me? What news of that unfortunate boy?”
“No news, Bridget, at least no good news; the boy's an outlaw, and will be an outlaw—or rather he won't be an outlaw long; they'll get him soon.”
“But why would they get him? hasn't he sense enough to keep from them?”
“That's just what he has not, Bridget; he has left the mountains and come down somewhere to the Infield country; but where, I cannot make out.”
“Well, asthore, he'll only bring on his own punishment. Troth, I'm not a bit sorry that Granua missed him. I never was to say, for the match, but you should have your way, and force the girl there to it, over and above. Of what use is his land and wealth to him now?”