When only eight, I won the St. Remy Cup at the
Pilwiddle races,--riding my favorite bloodmare Hellfire. As I
approached the stand amidst the plaudits of the assembled
multitude, and cries of, "Thrue for ye, Masther Terence," and "O,
but it's a Dinville!" there was a slight stir among the gentry, who
surrounded the Lord Lieutenant, and other titled personages whom
the race had attracted thither. "How young he is,--a mere child;
and yet how noble-looking," said a sweet low voice, which thrilled
my soul.
I looked up and met the full liquid orbs of the Hon. Blanche
Fitzroy Sackville, youngest daughter of the Lord Lieutenant. She
blushed deeply. I turned pale and almost fainted. But the cold,
sneering tones of a masculine voice sent the blood back again into
my youthful cheek.
"Very likely the ragged scion of one of these banditti Irish
gentry, who has taken naturally to 'the road.' He should be at
school--though I warrant me his knowledge of Terence will not
extend beyond his own name," said Lord Henry Somerset, aid-de-camp
to the Lord Lieutenant.
A moment and I was perfectly calm, though cold as ice.
Dismounting, and stepping to the side of the speaker, I said in a
low, firm voice:--
"Had your Lordship read Terence more carefully, you would have
learned that banditti are sometimes proficient in other arts beside
horsemanship," and I touched his holster significantly with my
hand.
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