"Similes illis fiant qui faciunt ea——"
"Some one here before us?" interrupted an Englishman with some suspicion.
"Two parties here before ye," answered the priest, icily, as if these repeated questions rumpled ecclesiastical dignity, and he gabbled on with the psalm, "similes illis fiant qui faciunt ea, et omnes——"
"If we lifted that box," interrupted the persistent Englishman, "what might there be?"
"If ye lift that box," answered Father Holland with massive solemnity—and I confess every hair on my body bristled as he rose—"If ye lift that box there might be a powr—dead—body," which was very true; for I still held the cocked pistol in hand and would have shot the first man daring to molest me.
But the priest's indifference was not so great as it appeared. I could tell from a tremor in his voice that he was greatly disturbed; and he certainly lost his place altogether in the vesper psalm.
"Requiescat in pace," were his next words, uttered in funereal gravity. Singularly enough, they seemed to fit the situation.
Father Holland's prompt offer to have the rough box examined satisfied the searchers, and there were no further demands.
"Oh," said the Englishman, taken aback, "I beg your pardon, sir! No offence meant."
"No offence," replied the priest, reseating himself. "Benedicite——"