"Wal, I'll depend on ye."

"Trath, yez may;--but how Misther Stump? How am I to lit yez know, if you're beyant hearin' av me voice? How thin?"

"Wal, I reck'n, I shan't need to go so fur as thet. Thur ought to be gobblers cloast by--at this time o' the mornin'.

"An yit there moutent," continued Zeb, after reflecting a while. "Ye ain't got sech a thing as a gun in the shanty? A pistol 'ud do."

"Nayther wan nor the tother. The masther tuk both away wid him, when he went last time to the sittlements. He must have lift them thare."

"It air awk'ard. I mout _not_ heer yur shout."

Zeb, who had by this time pa.s.sed through the doorway, again stopped to reflect.

"Heigh!" he exclaimed, after a pause of six seconds. "I've got it.

I've treed the eydee. Ye see my ole maar, tethered out thur on the gra.s.s?"

"Shure I do, Misther Stump. Av coorse I do."

"Wal, ye see thet ere p.r.i.c.kly cacktis plant growin' cloast to the edge o' the openin'?"

"Faith, yis."

"Wal, that's sensible o' ye. Now lissen to what I say. Ye must keep a look out at the door; an ef anybody k.u.ms up whiles I'm gone, run straight custrut for the cacktis, cut off one o' its branches--the th.o.r.n.i.e.s.t ye kin see--an stick it unner the maar's tail."

"Mother av Moses! For what div yez want me to do that?"

"Wal, I reck'n I'd better explain," said Zeb, reflectingly; "otherwise ye'll be makin' a mess o' it."

"Ye see, Pheelum, ef anybody interlopes durin' my absince I hed better be hyur. I ain't a goin' fur off. But howsomediver near, I moutn't hear yur screech; thurfore the maar's 'll do better. You clap the cacktis under her tail, cloast up to the fundament; and ef she don't squeal loud enuf to be heern by me, then ye may konklude that this c.o.o.n air eyther rubbed out, or hev both his lugs plugged wi picket pins. So, Pheelum; do you adzactly as I've tolt ye."

"I'll do it, be j.a.pers!"

"Be sure now. Yur master's life may depend upon it."

After delivering this last caution, the hunter shouldered his long rifle, and walked away from the hut.

"He's a cute owld chap that same," said Phelim as soon as Zeb was out of hearing. "I wonder what he manes by the master bein' in danger from any wan comin' to the cyabin. He sed, that his life moight depend upon it?

Yis--he sed that."

"He towlt me to kape a luk out. I suppose he maned me to begin at wance. I must go to the inthrance thin."

So saying, he stepped outside the door; and proceeded to make an ocular inspection of the paths by which the _jacale_ might be approached.

After completing this, he returned to the threshold; and there took stand, in the att.i.tude of one upon the watch.

CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN.

SOUNDING THE SIGNAL.

Phelim's vigil was of short duration. Scarce ten minutes had he been keeping it, when he became warned by the sound of a horse's hoof, that some one was coming up the creek in the direction of the hut.

His heart commenced hammering against his ribs.

The trees, standing thickly, hindered him from having a view of the approaching horseman; and he could not tell what sort of guest was about to present himself at the _jacale_. But the hoofstroke told him there was only _one_; and this it was that excited his apprehension. He would have been less alarmed to hear the trampling of a troop. Though well a.s.sured it could no longer be his master, he had no stomach for a second interview with the cavalier who so closely resembled him--in everything except the head.

His first impulse was to rush across the lawn, and carry out the scheme entrusted to him by Zeb. But the indecision springing from his fears kept him to his place--long enough to show him that they were groundless. The strange horseman had a head.

"Shure an that same he hez," said Phelim, as the latter rode out from among the trees, and halted on the edge of the opening; "a raal hid, an a purty face in front av it. An' yit it don't show so plazed nayther.

He luks as if he'd jist buried his grandmother. Sowl! what a quare young chap he is, wid them toiny mowstacks loike the down upon a two days' goslin'! O Lard! Luk at his little fut! _Be Jaysus, he's a woman_!"

While the Irishman was making these observations--partly in thought, partly in muttered speech--the equestrian advanced a pace or two, and again paused.

On a nearer view of his visitor, Phelim saw that he had correctly guessed the s.e.x; though the moustache, the manner of the mount, the hat, and serape, might for the moment have misled a keener intellect than his of Connemara.

It _was_ a woman. It was Isidora.

It was the first time that Phelim had set eyes on the Mexican maiden-- the first that hers had ever rested upon him. They were equally unknown to one another.

He had spoken the truth, when he said that her countenance did not display pleasure. On the contrary, the expression upon it was sad-- almost disconsolate.

It had shown distrust, as she was riding under the shadow of the trees.

Instead of brightening as she came out into the open ground, the look only changed to one of mingled surprise and disappointment.

Neither could have been caused by her coming within sight of the _jacale_. She knew of its existence. It was the goal of her journey.

It must have been the singular personage standing in the doorway. He was not the man she expected to see there.

In doubt she advanced to address him:

"I may have made a mistake?" said she, speaking in the best "Americana"

she could command. "Pardon me, but--I--I thought--that Don Mauricio lived here."

"Dan Marryshow, yez say? Trath, no. Thare's n.o.body av that name lives heeur. Dan Marryshow? Thare was a man they called Marrish had a dwillin' not far out av Ballyballagh. I remimber the chap will, bekase he chated me wanst in a horse thrade. But his name wasn't Dan. No; it was Pat. Pat Marrish was the name--divil burn him for a desaver!"

"Don Mauricio--Mor-rees--Mor-ees."

"Oh! Maurice! Maybe ye'd be after spakin' av the masther--Misther Gerrald!"

"Si--Si! Senor Zyerral."

"Shure, thin, an if that's fwhat ye're afther, Misther Gerrald diz dwill in this very cyabin--that is, whin he comes to divart hisself, by chasin' the wild horses. He only kapes it for a huntin' box, ye know.

Arrah, now; if yez cud only see the great big cyastle he lives in whin he's at home, in owld Ireland; an thy bewtiful crayther that's now cryin' her swate blue eyes out, bekase he won't go back thare. Sowl, if yez saw _her_!"

Despite its _patois_, Phelim's talk was too well understood by her to whom it was addressed. Jealousy is an apt translator. Something like a sigh escaped from Isidora, as he p.r.o.nounced that little word "her."

"I don't wish to see _her_," was the quick rejoinder; "but him you mention. Is he at home? Is he inside?"