They gathered
around the poplar-trunks, and waited with some uneasiness to see
what would follow.
Slowly and gravely, with the half-broken ban of silence still
hanging over them, the people issued from the house. The strange
man stood, leaning forward, and seemed to devour each, in turn,
with his eager eyes. After the young men came the fathers of
families, and lastly the old men from the gallery seats. Last of
these came Henry Donnelly. In the meantime, all had seen and
wondered at the waiting figure; its attitude was too intense and
self-forgetting to be misinterpreted. The greetings and remarks
were suspended until the people had seen for whom the man waited,
and why.
Henry Donnelly had no sooner set his foot upon the door-step than,
with something between a shout and a howl, the stranger darted
forward, seized his hand, and fell upon one knee, crying: "O my
lord! my lord! Glory be to God that I've found ye at last!"
If these words burst like a bomb on the ears of the people, what
was their consternation when Henry Donnelly exclaimed, "The Divel!
Jack O'Neil, can that be you?"
"It's me, meself, my lord! When we heard the letters went wrong
last year, I said `I'll trust no such good news to their blasted
mail-posts: I'll go meself and carry it to his lordship,--if it is
t'other side o' the say.
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