ter's wardrobe. His elbow went busily to and fro as he
plied the needle, while sprawling on the sod about him half a dozen
gossoons watched him inquisitively.

Perhaps it was the suggestive contrast between his diligence and their
idleness which irritated Flavia; but she set down her annoyance to
another cause. The man was an Englishman, and therefore an enemy: and
what did he there? Had the Colonel left him on guard?

Flavia's heart swelled at the thought. Here, at least, she and hers
were masters. Here, three hours west of Tralee--and God help the horse
on that road that was not a "lepper"--they brooked no rival. Colonel
John had awakened mixed feelings in her. At times she admired him. But,
admirable or not, he should rue his insolence, if he had it in his mind
to push his authority, or interfere with her plans.

In the meantime she stood watching William Bale, and a desire to know
more of the man, and through him of the master, rose within her. The
house was quiet. The McMurrough and his following had gone to a
cocking-match and race-meeting at Joyce's Corner. She went down the
stairs, took her hood, and crossed the courtyard. Bale did not look up
at her approach, but he saw her out of the corner of his eye, and when
she paused before him he laid down his work and made as if he would
rise.

She looked at him with a superciliousness not natural to her. "Are all
the men tailors where you come from?" she asked. "There, you need not
rise."

"Where I came from last," he replied, "we were all trades, my lady."

"Where was that?"

"In the camp," he answered.

"In Sweden?"

"God knows," he replied. "They raise no landmarks there, between
country and country, or it might be all their work to move them."

For a moment she was silent. Then, "Have you been a soldier long?" she
asked, feeling herself rebuffed.

"Twenty-one years, my lady."

"And now you have done with it."

"It is as his honour pleases."

She frowned. He had a way of speaking that sounded uncivil to ears
attuned to the soft Irish accent and the wheedling tone. Yet the man
interested her, and after a moment's silence she fixed her eyes more
intently on his work. "Did you lose your fingers in battle?" she asked.
His right hand was maimed.

"No," he answered--grudgingly, as he seemed to answer all her
questions--"in prison."

"In prison?" she repeated; "where?"

He cast an upward look at his questioner. "In the Grand Turk's land,"
he said. "