CHAPTER LXI.
IN WHICH THE GHOSTS OF A BY-GONE SIN KEEP TRYST.
Devereux, wrapped in his cloak, strode into the park, through Parson's-gate, up the steep hill, and turned towards Castleknock and the furze and hawthorn wood that interposes.

The wide plain spread before him in solitude, with the thin vapours of night, lying over it like a film in the moonlight.
Two or three thorn trees stood out from the rest, a pale and solitary group, stooping eastward with the prevailing sweep of a hundred years or more of westerly winds.

To this the gipsy captain glided, in a straight military line, his eye searching the distance; and, after a while, from the skirts of the wood, there moved to meet him a lonely female figure, with her light clothing fluttering in the cold air.

At first she came hurriedly, but as they drew near, she came more slowly.
Devereux was angry, and, like an angry man, he broke out first with-- 'So, your servant, Mistress Nan! Pretty lies you've been telling of me--you and your shrew of a mother.

You thought you might go to the rector and say what you pleased, and I hear nothing.' Nan Glynn was undefinably aware that he was very angry, and had hesitated and stood still before he began, and now she said imploringly-- 'Sure, Masther Richard, it wasn't me.' 'Come, my lady, don't tell me.