"Well, well," he resumed, "'What business is it of yours?' says you!"
"Not at all, Father," said Larry, still shaken by what he had heard.
"Thank you for speaking to me--it's the first I've heard of it."
The procession of the hunt halted, the hounds left the road by the
direct method of a high stone "gap," and Father David and the bay cob
melted away to betake themselves to those secret equivalent routes
known to those who have come to years of discretion in the
hunting-field.
The second draw seemed at first as if it were to be no more fortunate
than its predecessor. The covert was a patch of scrubby woodland at a
little distance below the road, at the head of one of the long deep
glens that were the terrors of the Broadwater country. The wind blew
from the west, across the wide cleft of Gloun Kieraun, and the hounds
were thrown into the wood in which the upper end of the glen was
masked, and were encouraged to work downwards. An unaccustomed wave of
misanthropy had assailed Larry, and instead of following with the
crowd the course of the hounds, he moved onwards along the road,
scarcely considering where he was going. He was thinking with
consternation of what Father Hogan had told him. Larry was not of
those who nurse their wrath to keep it warm, and the thought of Dick's
misfortunes swept away the recollection of his insults.
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