“How far am I from Carnfother?” she asked, as they drew near to her.  “Is there any house near here?”

“There is not,” said the yellow-haired woman; “and ye’re four miles from Carnfother yet.”

“I’ll pay you well if you will take a message there for me—­” began Mrs. Pat.

“Are ye sure have ye yer purse in yer pocket?” interrupted the yellow-haired woman with a laugh that succeeded in being as nasty as she wished; “or will I go dancin’ down to Carnfother—­”

“Have done, Joanna!” said the old man suddenly; “what trouble is on the lady?  What lamed the horse?”

He turned his bright blind eyes full on Mrs. Pat.  They were of the curious green blue that is sometimes seen in the eyes of a grey collie, and with all Mrs. Pat’s dislike and suspicion of the couple, she knew that he was blind.

“He was cut in a ditch,” she said shortly.

The old man had placed his fiddle in his daughter’s hands; his own hands were twitching and trembling.

“I feel the blood flowing,” he said in a very low voice, and he walked up to Pilot.

His hands went unguided to the wound, from which the steady flow of blood had never ceased.  With one he closed the lips of the cut, while with the other he crossed himself three times.  His daughter watched him stolidly; Mrs. Pat, with a certain alarm, having, after the manner of her kind, explained to herself the incomprehensible with the all-embracing formula of madness.  Yes, she thought, he was undoubtedly mad, and as soon as the paroxysm was past she would have another try at bribing the woman.

The old man was muttering to himself, still holding the wound in one hand.  Mrs. Pat could distinguish no words, but it seemed to her that he repeated three times what he was saying.  Then he straightened himself and stroked Pilot’s quarter with a light, pitying hand.  Mrs. Pat stared.  The bleeding had ceased.  The hunting-scarf lay on the road at the horse’s empurpled hoof.  There was nothing to explain the mystery, but the fact remained.

“He’ll do now,” said the blind man.  “Take him on to Carnfother; but ye’ll want to get five stitches in that to make a good job of it.”

“But—­I don’t understand—­” stammered Mrs. Pat, shaken for once out of her self-possession by this sudden extension of her spiritual horizon.  “What have you done?  Won’t it begin again?” She turned to the woman in her bewilderment:  “Is—­is he mad?”

“For as mad as he is, it’s him you may thank for yer horse,” answered the yellow-haired woman.  “Why, Holy Mother! did ye never hear of Kane the Blood-Healer?”

[Illustration:  THE BLOOD-HEALER.]

The road round them was suddenly thronged with hounds, snuffing at Pilot, and pushing between Mrs. Pat and the fence.  The cheerful familiar sound of the huntsman’s voice rating them made her feel her feet on solid ground again.  In a moment Major Booth was there, the Master had dismounted, the habits, loud with sympathy and excitement, had gathered round; a Whip was examining the cut, while he spoke to the yellow-haired woman.