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Updated: September 19, 2025
'Sho! man, where is the sport in that? Pomeroy cried, receiving the suggestion with disgust. 'It is what Lord Almeric proposed, Mr. Thomasson answered. The two glasses of wine he had taken had given him courage. 'I am no player, and at games of skill I am no match for you. A shadow crossed Mr. Pomeroy's face; but he recovered himself immediately.
I made a mistake when I said that there should be. I was mad; I was wicked, if you like. Do you hear me, my lord? she continued passionately. 'It was a mistake. I did not know what I was doing. And, now I do understand, I take it back. Lord Almeric gasped.
"Wilful must have his way," said the old servitor with a sigh. "What is to be will be, only remember, all of you, the old man has warned you, and only permits you to remain because he has no power to send you forth." "Nay, be not so inhospitable." "A churl will be a churl," said Almeric. The old man shook his head sadly, and went about his business, whatever that may have been.
He stood a moment irresolute, glaring at them; then something struck and shattered a pane of the window beside him, and the fetid smell of a bad egg filled the room. At the sound Mr. Thomasson uttered a cry and shrank farther into the darkness, while Lord Almeric rose hastily and looked about for a refuge. But Mr. Dunborough did not flinch.
He had every opportunity of carrying out Pomeroy's suggestion to make Lord Almeric his confidant. For when he entered the chamber which they shared, he found his lordship awake, tossing and turning in the shade of the green moreen curtains; in a pitiable state between chagrin and rage. But the tutor's nerve failed him.
"My lord," said Almeric, "we have come abroad in quest of adventures, and as yet found none to relate around the winter fireside when we get home again; and it is the humble petition of your poor squire and men-at-arms that we may remain in the castle this night and see what stuff the phantoms are made of, if phantoms there be." Hubert smiled approval.
Because it was Tarboe, the fifteen years younger brother of that Almeric Tarboe who had died a month after his own girl had left this world, his soul was fighting fighting. As the smoke of Carnac's pipe came curling into the air, Denzil put on his coat, and laid the hoe and rake on his shoulder.
Almeric was able to sit his horse with difficulty, Hubert taking the reins and riding at his side and supporting him from time to time with his arm. The sprightly lad was quite changed. "I know not what it was," he said, "but it was something in that darkness, an awful face, a giant form, a deathly thing of horror, and we lost our presence of mind and sought absence of body. That is all I can say.
He was a tall, heavy man, with a hard, bullying, sneering face; a Dunborough grown older. 'Hush! my good sir. Hush! Mr. Thomasson cried anxiously, after making more than one futile effort to stop him. Between his respect for his companion, and the deference in which he held a lord, the tutor was in agony. 'My good sir, my dear Lord Almeric, you are in error, he continued strenuously.
"I never smelled such air!" he said to one of the seconds. "I never saw the sun so beautiful!" He sniffed the air and turned his face towards the sun. "Well, it's a day for Ireland," he added, in response to a gravely playful remark of Sir Almeric Foyle. "Ireland never was so sweet. Nature's provoking us!" "Yes, it's a pity," said Sir Almeric. "But I'm not thinking of bad luck for you, Calhoun."
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