“That's Captain Darcy, man,” broke in Daly. “Is all your knowledge of mankind of so little use to you that you cannot distinguish between a born gentleman and an upstart?”
“By my oath,” said the robber, aloud, “I 'm as glad as a ten-pound note to know that it wasn't a half-bred one that showed the spirit you did! Hurrah! there's hopes for ould Ireland yet, when the blood and bone is still left in her! And wasn't it real luck that I saw you this night? If I did n't, I 'd have done you a bad turn. One word, Mr. Daly, one word in your ear.”
The robber drew Daly towards him, and whispered eagerly for some seconds.
A violent exclamation burst from Daly as he listened, and then he cried out, “What! are you sure of this? Don't deceive me, man!”
“May I never, but it's true.”
“Why, then, not have told it before?”
“Because”—here he faltered—“because—faix, I 'll tell the truth—I thought that young gentleman was Hickman's grandson, and I could n't bring myself to do him a spite after what I had seen.”
“The time is up, gentlemen,” said the turnkey, who, out of the delicacy of his official feeling, was slowly pacing the corridor up and down while they talked together.
“If this be but true,” muttered Daly to himself, “there's another cast of the dice for it yet.”
“I am sorry for that fellow,” said Lionel, aloud; “he did me a good turn once: I might have gone down the torrent, were it not for his aid.”