“Anti-Christ,” put in a snappish little fellow on his right.
“I do nothing of the sort,” said I. “Well, then, sir, from King Charles.”
“I do not.”
“Tush!” exclaim’d the snappish man, and then straightening himself up—“That boy with you—that fellow disguis’d as a countryman—look at his boots!—he’s a Papist spy!”
“There, sir, you are wrong!”
“I saw him—I’ll be sworn to his face—I saw him, a year back, at Douai, helping at the mass! I never forget faces.”
“Why, what nonsense!” cried I, and burst out laughing.
“Don’t mock at me, sir!” he thunder’d, bringing down his fist on the table. “I tell you the boy is a Papist!” He pointed furiously at Delia, who, now laughing also, answer’d him very demurely—
“Indeed, sir—”
“I saw you, I say.”