"But I am alarmed, for you're all wrong! Lord, boy, why didn't ye stay with that peppery Scotchman? What did Frances mane by lettin' you out to-night?" and he shaded the light of the lantern with his hand.
"I wanted these things," I explained.
"Ye want a broad thumpin', I'm thinkin', ye rattle-pate, to risk y'r precious noodle here to-night," he whispered, coming forward and fussing about me with all the maternal anxiety of a hen over her only chicken.
"Listen," said I. "The whole mob's coming in."
"Go!" he urged, pushing me from the desk over which I still fumbled.
"Run for those dogs of mercenaries!" I protested.
"Ye swash-buckler! Ye stiff-necked braggart!" bawled the priest. "Out wid y'r nonsense, and what good are y' thinkin' ye'll do—? Stir your stumps, y' stoopid spalpeen!"
"Listen," I urged, undisturbed by the tongue-thrashing that stormed about my ears. In the babel of voices I thought I had heard some one call my name.
"Run, Rufus! Run for y'r life, boy!" urged Father Holland, apparently thinking the ruffians had come solely for me.
"Run yourself, Father; run yourself, and see how you like it," and I tucked the documents inside my coat.