“Where am I?” cried he, wildly. “Who are all these? What do they allege against me?”
“Lie down; compose yourself, Mr. Carew. You are amongst friends, who wish you well, and will treat you kindly,” said Fagan, mildly.
“But it was not of my seeking,—no one can dare to say so. Fagan will be my back to any amount,—ten thousand, if they ask it.”
“That will I,—to the last penny I possess.”
“There, I told you so. I often said I knew the Grinder better than any of you. You laughed at me for it; but I was right, for all that.”
“I trust you were right, sir,” said Fagan, calmly.
“What I said was this,” continued he, eagerly: “the father of such a girl as Polly must be a gentleman at heart. He may trip and stumble, in his imitations of your modish paces; but the soul of a gentleman must be in him. Was I right there, or not?”
“Pray, calm yourself; lie down, and take your rest,” said Fagan, gently pushing him back upon the pillow.
“You are quite right,” said he; “there is nothing for it now but submission. MacNaghten, Harvey, Burton,—all who have known me from boyhood,—can testify if I were one to do a dishonorable action. I tell you again and again, I will explain nothing; life is not worth such a price,—such ignominy is too great!”
He paused, as if the thought was too painful to pursue; and then, fixing his eyes on Fagan, he laughed aloud, and added,—