“What’s this!” exclaimed Henderson.  “Are you not Miss Sullivan?”

“Am I in a dhrame?” said the Prophet, approaching the door of the chaise.  “Surely—­now—­what is it?  It’s my daughter’s voice!  Is that Sarah that I left in her bed of typhus faver this night?  Or, am I in a dhrame still, I say?  Sarah, is it you?  Spake.”

“It is me, father; help me home.  It will be your last throuble with me, I think—­at laste, I hope so—­oh, I hope so!”

“Who talks about typhus fever?” asked Henderson, starting out of the chaise with alarm.  “What means this?  Explain yourself.”

“I can no more explain it,” replied the Prophet, “than you can.  I left my daughter lyin’ in bed of typhus faver, not more than three or four hours ago; an’ if I’m to believe my ears, I find her in the carriage with you now!”

“I’m here,” she replied; “help me out.”

“Oh, I see it all now,” observed Henderson, in a fit of passion, aggravated by the bitterness of his disappointment—­“I see your trick; an’ so, you old scoundrel, you thought to impose your termagant daughter upon me instead of Miss Sullivan, and she reeking with typhus fever, too, by your own account.  For this piece of villany I shall settle with you, however, never fear.  Typhus fever!  Good God!—­and I so dreadfully afraid of it all along, that I couldn’t bear to look near a house in which it was, nor approach any person even recovering out of it.  Driver, you may leave the girl at home.  As for me, I shall not enter your chaise again, contaminated, as it probably is, with that dreadful complaint, that is carrying off half the country.  Call to the Grange in the morning, an’ you shall be paid.  Good-night, you prophetical old impostor.  I shall mark you for this piece of villany; you may rest assured of that.  A pretty trudge I shall have to the Grange, such a vile and tempestuous night; but you shall suffer for it, I say again.”

Donnel Dhu was not merely disappointed at finding Sarah in such a situation; he was literally stupefied with amazement, and could scarcely believe the circumstances to be real.  It had been agreed between him and Henderson, that should the latter succeed in fetching Mave Sullivan as far as the Grey Stone, he (the Prophet) should be considered to have fulfilled the conditions of the compact entered into between them, and the wages of his iniquity were to have been paid to him on that spot.  It is unnecessary to say, therefore, that his disappointment and indignation were fully equal to those of Henderson himself.

“Where am I to go now?” asked the driver.

“To hell!” replied the Prophet, “an you may bring your fare with you.”

“You must take the reins yourself, then,” replied the man, “for I don’t know the way.”

“Drive across the river, here then,” continued the other, “and up the little road to the cottage on the right; yes, to the right—­till we get that—­that—­I can’t find words to name her—­in the house.”