"I feel the blood flowing,
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The old man was muttering to himself, still holding the wound in one hand. Mrs. Pat could distinguish no words,
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"He'll do now,
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"How far am I from Carnfother?" she asked, as they drew near to her. "Is there any house near here?"
"I'll pay you well if you will take a message there for me--" began Mrs. Pat.
The old man had placed his fiddle in his daughter's hands,
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His hands went unguided to the wound, from which the steady flow of blood had never ceased. With one he closed the lips of the cut, while with the other he crossed himself three times. His daughter watched him stolidly; Mrs. Pat, with a certain alarm, having, after the manner of her kind, explained to herself the incomprehensible with the all-embracing formula of madness. Yes, she thought,
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"Have done,
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He turned his bright blind eyes full on Mrs. Pat. They were of the curious green blue that is sometimes seen in the eyes of a grey collie,
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ice, and though she turned up the collar of her coat, the rain ran down under the neckband of her shirt and chilled her through and through. It was evident that an artery had been cut in Pilot's leg; the flow, from the wound never ceased; the hunting-scarf drenched with blood, had slipped down to the hock. It seemed to Mrs. Pat that her horse must bleed to death, and, tough and unemotional though she was, Pilot was very near her heart; tears gathered in her eyes as she led him slowly on through the rain and the loneliness, in the forlorn hope of finding help. She progressed in this lamentable manner for perhaps half a mile; the rain ceased,
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"There is not," said the yellow-haired woman; "and ye're four miles from Carnfother yet."
"Ah, have done with that thrash of music; sure, it'll be dark night itself before we're in to Lismore."
There was something familiar in the coarse tones. The weirdness fell from the wail of the music as Mrs. Pat remembered the woman who had bothered her for money that morning in Carnfother. She and the blind old man were tramping slowly up the road, seemingly as useless a couple to any one in Mrs. Pat's plight as could well be imagined.
"Are ye sure have ye yer purse in yer pocket?" interrupted the yellow-haired woman with a laugh that succeeded in being as nasty as she wished; "or will I go dancin' down to Carnfother--"
"He was cut in a ditch," she said shortly.
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