“Then take the shortest, and you'll be soonest at your journey's end,” said he, gruffly.
“Who can say that?” rejoined I; “it's no difficult matter to lose one's way in a dense forest, where the tracks are unknown.”
“There is but one path, and it cannot be mistaken,” said he, in the same tone.
“It has one great disadvantage, Father,” said I.
“What is that?”
“There is no companionship on it; and, to say truth, I have too much of the Irishman in me to leave good company for the pleasure of travelling all alone.”
“Methinks you have very little of the Irishman about you, in another respect,” said he, with a sneer of no doubtful meaning.
“How so?” said I, eagerly.
“In volunteering your society when it is not sought for, young gentleman,” said he, with a look of steadfast effrontery,—“at least, I can say, such were not the habits of the land as I remember it some forty years ago.”
“Ah, holy Father, it has grown out of many a barbarous custom since your time: the people have given up drinking and faction-fighting, and you may travel fifty miles a day for a week together and never meet with a friar.”