“You can at least carry a message for me?” said the priest, at last.
“It's just as much as I dare do,” replied the other.
“You incur no risk whatever so far,” continued Cahill “The poor man is my sacristan, and I am deeply interested for him. I only heard of his being arrested last night, and you see I 've lost no time in coming to see after him. Tell him this. Tell him that I was here at daybreak, and that I 'll do my best to get leave to speak with him daring the day. Tell him, moreover, that, if I shouldn't succeed in this, not to be down-hearted, for that we—a friend of mine and myself——will not desert him nor see him wronged. And, above all, tell him to say nothing whatever to the magistrates. Mind me well,—not a syllable of any kind.”
“I mistake him greatly,” said the turnkey, “or he 's the man to take a hint quick enough, particularly if it's for his own benefit.”
“And so it is,—his own, and no other's,” rejoined the priest. “If he but follow this advice, I 'll answer for his being liberated before the week ends. Say, also, that I 'd send him some money, but that it might draw suspicion on him; and for the present it is better to be cautious.”
Before Cahill left the prison, he reiterated all his injunctions as to caution, and the turnkey faithfully pledged himself to enforce them on the prisoner.
“I will come again this evening,” said the priest, “and you can tell me what he says; for, as he has no friend but myself, I must not forsake him.”
As Cahill gained the street, a heavy travelling-carriage, whose lumbering build bespoke a foreign origin, passed by with four posters, and, sweeping across the market-place, drew up at the chief inn of the town. The priest, in idle curiosity, mingled with the lounging crowd that immediately gathered around the strange-looking equipage, where appliances for strength and comfort seemed blended, in total disregard to all facilities for motion. A bustling courier, with all the officiousness of his craft, speedily opened the door and banged down the steps, and a very tall old man, in what appeared to be an undress military frock, descended, and then assisted a young lady to alight. This done, they both gave their arm to a young man, whose wasted form and uncertain step bespoke long and severe illness. Supporting him at either side, they assisted him up the steps into the hall, while the bystanders amused themselves in criticising the foreigners, for such their look and dress declared them.
“The ould fellow with a white beard over his lip is a Roosian or a Proosian,” cried one, who aspired to no small skill in continental nationalities.
“Faix! the daughter takes the shine out of them all,” cried another. “She's a fine crayture!”