"Timothy," he called quietly.
The old man paused in his walk. Then he came forward towards the speaker
and dropped on one knee. His face showed no surprise, though his eyes were
strange and almost terribly brilliant.
"The Cathley!" he exclaimed. "God is good!"
He kissed his master's hand, which he had seized with almost frantic joy.
Jocelyn Thew raised him to his feet.
"You recognised me then, Timothy?"
"There is no Cathley in the world," the old man answered passionately,
"would ever rise up before me and call himself by any other name."
"Am I safe here, Timothy, for a day or two?"
The old man's scorn was a wonderful thing.
"Safe!" he repeated. "Safe! There is just a dozen miles or so of the
Kingdom of Ireland where the stranger who came on evil business would
disappear, and it's our pride that we are the centre of it."
"They've held on, then, in these parts?"
"Hold on? Why, the fire that smouldered has become a blaze," was the eager
response. "Ireland is our country here. Why--you know?"
"Know what?" Jocelyn Thew demanded. "You must treat me as a stranger,
Timothy, I have been living under a false name. News has failed me for
years."
"Don't you know," the old man went on eagerly, "that they meet here in the
castle, the men who count--Hagen, the poet, Matlaske, the lawyer, Indewick,
Michael Dilwyn, Harrison, and the great O'Clory himself?"
"I thought O'Clory was in prison since the Sinn Fein rising.
Pages:
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308