"I have you!"

At the same time the boy, with a cry of terror, tripped and tumbled; and
felt himself roughly caught by the arm, and hauled to his feet with a
shake.

A wild yell from the child, and a volley of terror and entreaty
followed.

"Who is it, Larry; what's the matter?" cried a voice, high in air, from
the turret window, The words floated down through the trees, clear and
sweet as the low notes of a flute.

"Only a child, my lady; a boy."

"Is he hurt?"

"Are you hurted?" demanded the whitish man, who held him fast, and
repeated the question in Irish; but the child only kept blubbering and
crying for mercy, with his hands clasped, and trying to drop on his
knees.

Larry's strong old hand held him up. He _was_ hurt, and bleeding from
over his eye.

"Just a trifle hurted, my lady!"

"Bring him up here."

Shaeen Mull Ryan gave himself over. He was among "the good people," who