"The Dutchman was right, after all. More than half the city perished. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. She had looked forward to an explanation. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible.
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