All was fitly performed;
and although Dickenson had no design upon the jovial knight--and if he
had not, there was nobody within fifteen miles that could be suspected
of such an outrage,--yet Larry Sweeney was determined to make good his
promise of watching his master. "I'd think little of telling a lie to him,
by the way of no harm when he was alive," said he, wiping his eyes, as
soon as the last of the train had departed, leaving him with a single
companion in the lonely cemetery; "but now that he's dead--God rest his
soul!--I'd scorn it. So Jack Kinaley, as behoves my first cousin's son,
stay you with me here this blessed night, for betune (between) you and I,
it an't lucky to stay by one's self in this ruinated old rookery, where
ghosts, God help us, is as thick as bottles in Sir Theodore's cellar!"
"Never you mind that, Larry," said Kinaley, a discharged soldier, who had
been through all the campaigns of the Peninsula; "never mind, I say, such
botherations. Han't I lain in bivouack on the field at Salamanca, and
Tallawara, and the Pyrumnees, and many another place beside, where there
was dead corpses lying about in piles, and there was no more ghosts than
kneebuckles in a ridgemint of Highlanders.
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