Suddenly the silence was pierced by a long, wailing cry from the
dark moors outside. The silence that followed it seemed more
startling than the shriek itself, and it lasted until Nolan said,
heavily:
"'Tis the banshee. Somebody is marked for the grave."
His long, large-featured face was as pale as a moon, and it was easy
to remember that he was the only Irishman in the room.
"Well, I know that banshee," said Wilson, cheerfully, "ignorant as
you think I am of these things. I talked to that banshee myself an
hour ago, and I sent that banshee up to the tower and told her to
sing out like that if she could get a glimpse of our friend writing
his proclamation."
"Do you mean that girl Bridget Royce?" asked Morton, drawing his
frosty brows together. "Has she turned king's evidence to that
extent?"
"Yes," answered Wilson. "I know very little of these local things,
you tell me, but I reckon an angry woman is much the same in all
countries."
Nolan, however, seemed still moody and unlike himself. "It's an ugly
noise and an ugly business altogether," he said. "If it's really the
end of Prince Michael it may well be the end of other things as
well. When the spirit is on him he would escape by a ladder of dead
men, and wade through that sea if it were made of blood.
Pages:
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56