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"On'y a dhrop, Miss," he repeated piteously, "and av ye pleeze, quick! afore I'm stharved with the cold entoirely." She looked at him intently without lowering her gun. "Who are you?" "Thin, it's the truth I'll tell ye, Miss whisth then!" he said in a half-whisper; "I'm a desarter!" "Then it was YOU that was doggin' us on the Marsh?" "It was the sarjint I was lavin', Miss."
Wid a horse betune me legs, it's on parade oi'd be now, Miss, and not wandhering over the bare flure of the Marsh, stharved wid the cold, the thirst, and hunger, wid the mud and the moire thick on me; facin' an illigant young leddy as is the ekal ov a Fayld Marshal's darter not to sphake ov Kernal Preston's ez couldn't hold a candle to her."
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