English, French, and Indians weltered in seas of blood.

One morning Desmond set out for a long walk in the direction of Newport.
It was holiday on the farm; Richard Burke allowed his men a day off once
every half year when he paid his rent. They would almost rather not have
had it, for he made himself particularly unpleasant both before and
after. On this morning he had got up in a bad temper, and managed to find
half a dozen occasions for grumbling at Desmond before breakfast, so that
the boy was glad to get away and walk off his resentment and soreness of
heart.

As he passed the end of the lane leading toward the Hall, he saw two men
in conversation some distance down it. One was on horseback, the other on
foot. At a second glance he saw with surprise that the mounted man was
his brother; the other, Diggle. A well-filled moneybag hung at Richard
Burke's saddle bow; he was on his way to the Hall to pay his rent. His
back was towards Desmond; but, as the latter paused, Richard threw a
rapid glance over his shoulder, and with a word to the man at his side
cantered away.

Diggle gave Desmond a hail and came slowly up the lane, his face wearing
its usual pleasant smile. His manner was always very friendly, and had
the effect of making Desmond feel on good terms with himself.

"Well met, my friend," said Diggle cordially. "I was longing for a chat.
Beshrew me if I have spoken more than a dozen words today, and that, to a
man of my sociable temper, not to speak of my swift and practised
tongue--lingua celer et exercitata: you remember the phrase of
Tully's--is a sore trial."