“Come, come,” said Grounsell, good-humoredly, “this is not spoken like yourself. It can be no object with you to injure a young gentleman who never harmed you; and if, in serving him, you can serve yourself, the part will be both more sensible and more honorable.”
“Well, then,” said Meekins, calmly, “I can serve him; and now comes the other question, 'What will he do for me?'”
“What do you require from him?”
“To leave this place at once,—before morning,” said the other, earnestly. “I don't want to see them that might make me change my mind; to be on board of a ship at Waterford, and away out of Ireland forever, with three hundred pounds,—I said two, but I 'll want three,—and for that—for that “—here he hesitated some seconds,—“for that I 'll do what I promised.”
“And this business will never be spoken of more.”
“Eh! what?” cried Meekins, starting.
“I mean that when your terms are complied with, what security have we that you 'll not disclose this secret hereafter?”
Meekins slowly repeated the other's words twice over to himself, as if to weigh every syllable of them, and then a sudden flashing of his dark eyes showed that he had caught what he suspected was their meaning.
“Exactly so; I was coming to that,” cried he. “We 'll take an oath on the Gospel,—Mr. Frank Dalton and myself,—that never, while there's breath in our bodies, will we ever speak to man or mortal about this matter. I know a born gentleman would n't perjure himself, and, as for me, I 'll swear in any way, and before any one, that your two selves appoint.”
“Then there's this priest,” said Grounsell, doubtingly. “You have already told him a great deal about this business.”