"Umrrhh!" said Terence. "Faith, I talk that langwidge mesilf when I have
throuble." The warriors stared at him with what might be called a
stoical surprise. "Umrrh! Does the holy father praych to ye wid thim
wurrds, ye haythens? Begorra, 'tis a wondher ye wuddent wash
yereselves," he added, making a face, "wid muddy wather to be had for the
askin'."
We moved on, through such a scene as I have seldom beheld. The village
had donned its best: women in cap and gown were hurrying hither and
thither, some laughing and some weeping; grown men embraced each other;
children of all colors flung themselves against Terence's
legs,--dark-haired Creoles, little negroes with woolly pates, and naked
Indian lads with bow and arrow. Terence dashed at them now and then, and
they fled screaming into dooryards to come out again and mimic him when
he had passed, while mothers and fathers and grandfathers smiled at the
good nature in his Irish face. Presently he looked down at me comically.
"Why wuddent ye be doin' the like, Davy?" he asked. "Amusha! 'tis mesilf
that wants to run and hop and skip wid the childher. Ye put me in mind
of a wizened old man that sat all day makin' shoes in Killarney,--all
savin' the fringe he had on his chin."
"A soldier must be dignified," I answered.
"The saints bar that wurrd from hiven," said Terence, trying to pronounce
it.
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