Now it was dark; and, terrible work breaking through brambles and hazels and tumbling over rocks.

Little Shaeen Mull Ryan, the last of the panic rout, screaming to his mates to wait for him--saw a whitish figure emerge from the thicket at the base of the stone flight of steps that descended the side of the glen, close by the castle-wall, intercepting his flight, and a discordant male voice shrieked---- "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 he knew would keep him prisoner for ever and a day.

There was no good in resisting.