look so well--faith it's in a glow o' health you are, may God
continue it to you! Be my sowl, it's you that can pepper the Orangemen,
any how, your Reverence--and how is Father Roche, sir--although sure
enough he's no match for you in givin' it home to the thieves."

"Silence, you hypocritical sleeveen, don't think you'll crawl up my
wrist--as you do up M'Clutchy's and M'Slime's. Is it true that you have
become an apostate?"

Darby here attempted to work up a kind of sly significant wheedling
expression into his eye, as he stole a half timid, half confidant glance
at the priest--but it would not do--the effort was a failure, and no
wonder--for there before him sat the terrible catechist like an embodied
thunder cloud--red, lurid, and ready to explode before him--nay he could
see the very lightning playing and scintillating in his eyes, just as
it often does about the cloud before the bursting of the peal. In this
instance there was neither sympathy nor community of feeling between
them, and Darby found that no meditated exposition of pious fraud,
such as "quartering on the enemy," or "doing the thieves," or any other
interested ruse, had the slightest chance of being tolerated by the
uncompromising curate. The consequence was, that the rising roguery died
away from Darby's face, on which there remained nothing but a blank
and baffled expression, that gave strong assurance of his being in a
situation of great perplexity. The most timid and cowardly animals will,
however, sometimes turn upon their captors, and Darby although he
felt no disposition to bandy words with the curate, resolved,
notwithstanding, to abide by the new creed, until he should be able
to ascertain his chance of the gaolership. There was, besides, another
motive. He knew Mr. Lucre's character so well, that he determined to
pursue such a course, during his interview, as might ensure him a sound
horse-whipping; for it occurred to him that a bit of martyrdom would
make a capital opening argument during his first interview with Mr.
Lucre.

"Did you hear me, sir?" again inquired the curate, making his whip
whistle past his own right foot, just as if he had aimed it at the
stirrup--"is it true that you have turned apostate?"

"I thought you knew it, sir," said Darby, "or if you didn't, why did you
read me out the Sunday before last from the althar?"

"Then you acknowledge it," cried the priest, "you have the brass to
acknowledge it, have you?" And here