"Thin, it's the truth I'll tell ye, Miss--whisth then!" he said in a half- whisper; "I'm a desarter!""Then it was YOU that was doggin' us on the Marsh?" "It was the sarjint I was lavin', Miss."She looked at him hesitatingly.
"Stay outside there; if you move a step into the room, I'll blow you out of it."He stepped back on the gallery.She closed the door, bolted it, and still holding the gun, opened a cupboard, poured out a glass of whiskey, and returning to the door, opened it and handed him the liquor.
She watched him drain it eagerly, saw the fiery stimulant put life into his shivering frame, trembling hands, and kindle his dull eye-- and-- quietly raised her gun again.
"Ah, put it down, Miss, put it down! Fwhot's the use? Sure the bullets yee carry in them oiyes of yours is more deadly! It's out here oi'll sthand, glory be to God, all night, without movin' a fut till the sarjint comes to take me, av ye won't levil them oiyes at me like that.Ah, whirra! look at that now! but it's a gooddess she is--the livin' Jaynus of warr, standin' there like a statoo, wid her alybaster fut put forward."In her pride and conscious superiority, any suggestion of shame at thus appearing before a common man and a mendicant was as impossible to her nature as it would have been to a queen or the goddess of his simile.His presence and his compliment alike passed her calm modesty unchallenged.The wretched scamp recognized the fact and felt its power, and it was with a superstitious reverence asserting itself through his native extravagance that he raised his grimy hand to his cap in military salute and became respectfully rigid.
"Then the sodgers were huntin' YOU?" she said thoughtfully, lowering her weapon.
"Thrue for you, Miss--they worr, and it's meself that was lyin' flat in the ditch wid me faytures makin' an illigant cast in the mud--more betoken, as ye see even now--and the sarjint and his daytail thrampin' round me.It was thin that the mortial cold sthruck thro' me mouth, and made mewake for the whiskey that would resthore me." "What did you desert fer?""Ah, list to that now! Fwhat did I desart fer?Shure ev there was the ghost of an inemy round, it's meself that would be in the front now! But it was the letthers from me ould mother, Miss, that is sthruck wid a mortial illness--long life to her!--in County Clare, and me sisthers in Ninth Avenue in New York, fornint the daypo, that is brekken their harruts over me listin' in the Fourth Infanthry to do duty in a haythen wilderness.Av it was the cavalry--and it's me own father that was in the Innishkillen Dthragoons, Miss--oi wouldn't moind.Wid a horse betune me legs, it's on parade oi'd be now, Miss, and not wandhering over the bare flure of the Marsh, stharved wid the cold, the thirst, and hunger, wid the mud and the moire thick on me; facin' an illigant young leddy as is the ekal ov a Fayld Marshal's darter--not to sphake ov Kernal Preston's--ez couldn't hold a candle to her."Brought up on the Spanish frontier, Maggie Culpepper was one of the few American girls who was not familiar with the Irish race.The rare smile that momentarily lit up her petulant mouth seemed to justify the intruder's praise. But it passed quickly, and she returned dryly:
"That means you want more drink, suthin' to eat, and clothes.Suppose my brother comes back and ketches you here?""Shure, Miss, he's just now hunten me, along wid his two haythen Diggers, beyond the laygoon there.It worr the yellar one that sphotted me lyin' there in the ditch; it worr only your own oiyes, Miss--more power to their beauty for that!--that saw me folly him unbeknownst here; and that desaved them, ye see!"The young girl remained for an instant silent and thoughtful.
"We're no friends of the Fort," she said finally, "but I don't reckon for that reason my brother will cotton to YOU.Stay out thar where ye are, till I come to ye.If you hear me singin' again, you'll know he's come back, and ye'd better scoot with what you've already got, and be thankful." She shut the door again and locked it, went into the dining-room, returned with some provisions wrapped in paper, took a common wicker flask from the wall, passed into her brother's bedroom, and came out witha flannel shirt, overalls, and a coarse Indian blanket, and, reopening the door, placed them before the astonished and delighted vagabond.His eye glistened; he began, "Glory be to God," but for once his habitual extravagance failed him.Nature triumphed with a more eloquent silence over his well-worn art.He hurriedly wiped his begrimed face and eyes with the shirt she had given him, and catching the sleeve of her rough pea- jacket in his dirty hand, raised it to his lips.
"Go!" she said imperiously."Get away while you can.""Av it vas me last words--it's speechless oi am," he stammered, and disappeared over the railing.
She remained for a moment holding the door half open, and gazing into the darkness that seemed to flow in like a tide.Then she shut it, and going into her bedroom resumed her interrupted toilette.When she emerged again she was smartly stockinged and slippered, and even the blue serge skirt was exchanged for a bright print, with a white fichu tied around her throat.An attempt to subdue her rebellious curls had resulted in the construction from their ruins of a low Norman arch across her forehead with pillared abutments of ringlets.When her brother returned a few moments later she did not look up, but remained, perhaps a little ostentatiously, bending over the fire.
