Mrs. O'Moore took her hands from her
eyes, where they had been pressed. "Don't you know what it is, Lady
Kirton? It is the Irish death-wail!"
It rose again, louder than before, for those from whom it came were
nearing the house--a horribly wailing sound, ringing out in the silence
of the night. Mrs. O'Moore crouched into her chair again, and hid her
terrified face. She was not Irish, and had never heard that sound but
once, and that was when her child died.
"She is right," cried her husband, the O'Moore; "that is the death-wail.
Hark! it is for a chieftain; they mourn the loss of one high in the land.
And--they are coming here! Oh, Elster! can DEATH have overtaken your
brother?"
The gentlemen had stood spell-bound, listening to the sound, their faces
a mixture of surprise and credulity. At the words they rushed out with
one accord, and the women stole after them with trembling steps and
blanched lips.
"If ever I saw such behaviour in all my existence!" irascibly spoke the
countess-dowager, who was left alone in her glory. "The death-wail,
indeed! The woman's a fool. I'll get those Irishmen transported, if
I can."
In the hall the servants were gathered, cowering almost as the ladies
did. Their master had flown down the hall-steps, and the labourers were
coming steadily up to it, bearing something in procession. Dr. Ashton
came back as quickly as he had gone out, extending his arms before him.
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