He was a round plump man, with carrot-coloured hair and a bright ruddy skin, dressed in a suit of stout stuff. His lips, nose, eyes, air, and attitude, were all unmistakably Irish.
Couched upon a piece of horse-skin, in front of the fire was a huge Irish staghound,[17] that looked as if he understood the speech of the man.
Whether he did so or not, it was addressed to him, as if he was expected to comprehend every word.
Oh, Tara, my jewel! exclaimed the man fraternally interrogating the hound; dont you wish now to be back in Ballyballagh? Wouldnt you like to be once more in the courtyard of the old castle! But theres no knowing when the young master will go back, and take us along with him.
Id like a drop now, continued the speaker, casting a covetous glance towards the jar. No-no; I wont touch the whisky. Ill only draw the cork out of the demijohn, and take a smell at it. Sure the master wont know anything about that; and if he did, he wouldnt mind it!
During the concluding portion of this utterance, the speaker had forsaken his seat, and approached the corner where stood the jar.
He took up the demijohn and drew out the stopper. After half a dozen smacks of the mouth, with exclamations denoting supreme satisfaction, he hastily restored the stopper; returned the demijohn to its place; and glided back to his seat upon the stool.
Tara, you old thief! said he, addressing himself once more to his canine companion, it was you that tempted me! No matter, man: the master will never miss it; besides, hes going soon to the Fort, and can lay in a fresh supply.
I wonder, muttered he, what makes Master Maurice so anxious to get back to the Settlements. He says hell go whenever he catches that spotty mustang he has seen lately. I suppose it must be something beyond the common. He says he wont give it up, till he catches it. Hush! whats that?
Tara springing up from his couch of skin, and rushing out with a low growl, had caused the exclamation.
Phelim! called a voice from the outside. Phelim!
Its the master, muttered Phelim, as he jumped from his stool, and followed the dog through the doorway.
Phelim was not mistaken. It was the voice of his master, Maurice Gerald. As the servant should have expected, his master was mounted upon his horse.
The blood-bay was not alone. At the end of the lazo drawn from the saddle tree was a captive. It was a mustang of peculiar appearance, as regarded its markings; which were of a kind rarely seen. The colour of the mustang was a ground of dark chocolate in places approaching to black with white spots distributed over it.
The creature was of perfect shape. It was of large size for a mustang, though much smaller than the ordinary English horse.
Phelim had never seen his master return from a horse-hunting excursion in such a state of excitement; even when coming back as he often did with half a dozen mustangs led loosely at the end of his lazo.
Master Maurice, you have caught the spotty at last! cried he, as he set eyes upon the captive. Its a mare! Where will you put her, master? Into the corral, with the others?
No, she might get kicked among them. We shall tie her in the shed. Did you ever see anything so beautiful as she is, Phelim I mean in the way of horseflesh?
Never, Master Maurice; never, in all my life!
The spotted mare was soon stabled in the shed, Castro being temporarily attached to a tree.
The mustanger threw himself on his horse-skin couch, wearied with the work of the day. The capture of the spotted mustang had cost him a long and arduous chase such as he had never ridden before in pursuit of a mustang.
Notwithstanding that he had spent several days in the saddle the last three in constant pursuit of the spotted mare he was unable to obtain repose. At intervals he rose to his feet, and paced the floor of his hut, as if stirred by some exciting emotion.
For several nights he had slept uneasily till not only his henchman[18] Phelim, but his hound Tara, wondered what could be the meaning of his unrest.
At length Phelim determined on questioning his master as to the cause of his inquietude.
Master Maurice, what is the matter with you?
Nothing, Phelim nothing! What do you mean?
What do I mean? Why, that whenever you close your eyes and think you are sleeping, you begin palavering! You are always trying to pronounce a big name that appears to have no ending, though it begins with a point!
A name! What name?
I cant tell you exactly. Its too long for me to remember, seeing that my education was entirely neglected. But theres another name that you put before it; and that I can tell you. Its Louise that you say, Master Maurice; and then comes the point.
Ah! interrupted the young Irishman, evidently not caring to converse longer on the subject. Some name I may have heard somewhere, accidentally. One does have such strange ideas in dreams!
In your dreams, master, you talk about a girl looking out of a carriage with curtains to it, and telling her to close them against some danger that you are going to save her from.