“How was it then?” said Sir Archy, who, as he sat beside the sick bed, questioned the youth about his adventure. “You said something of a horse?” “Yes; she was riding. Oh, how bravely she rode too! It was fine to see her as the spray fell over her like a veil, and she shook the drops from her hair.” “Whence came she? Who was the lady?” “Take care--take care,” said the youth in a solemn whisper, and with a steadfast look before him; “Derrybahn has given warning--the storm is coming. It is not for one so tender as you to tempt the river of the black valley.” “Be still, my boy,” said the old man; “you must not speak thus; your head will ache if you take not rest--keep quiet.” “Yes; my head, my head,” muttered he vaguely, repeating the words which clinked upon his mind. “She put her arm round my neck--There--there,” cried he, starting up wildly in his bed, “catch it--seize it--my feet are slipping--the rock moves--I can hold no longer; there--there,” and with a low moaning sigh he sunk back fainting on the pillow. Sir Archibald applied all his efforts to enforce repose and rest; and having partially succeeded, hastened to the O'Donoghue's chamber, to confer with the boy's father on what steps should be taken to procure medical aid. It was yet some hours earlier than the accustomed time of his waking, as the old man saw the thin and haggard face of Sir Archy peering between the curtains of his bed. “Well, what is it?” said he, in some alarm at the unexpected sight. “Has Gubbins issued the distress? Are the scoundrels going to sell us out?” “No, no; it is another matter brings me here,” replied M 'Nab, with a gravity even deeper than usual. “That infernal bond! By God, I knew it; it never left my dreams these last three nights. Mark was too late, I suppose, or they wouldn't take the interest, and the poor fellow sold his mare to get the money.” “Dinna fash about these things now,” said M'Nab with impatience, “It's that poor callant, Herbert--he's very ill--it's a fever he's caught. I'm thinking.” “Oh Herbert!” said O'Donoghue, with a tone of evident relief, that his misfortunes had taken any other shape than the much-dreaded one of money-calamity. “What of him?” “He's in a fever; his mind is wandering already.” “Not a bit of it; it's a mere wetting--a common cold: the boy fell into the river last night at the old bridge there; Kerry told me something about it; and so, maybe, Mark may reach Cork in good time after all.” “I am no speaking of Mark just now,” said M'Nab tartly, “but of the other lad, wha may be dangerously ill, if something be nae done quickly.” “Then, send for Roach. Let one of the boys saddle a horse and ride over to Killarney. Oh! I was forgetting; let a fellow go off on foot, he'll get there before evening. It is confoundedly hard to have nothing in the stables, even to mount a messenger. I hope Mark may be able to manage matters in Cork. Poor fellow, he hates business as much as I do myself.”