“I suppose you fancy there would be something like slavery in such a position?” said Scanlan, with a derisive look.
“I know it!” responded the other, firmly.
“Then what do you say to the alternative,—and there is but one only open to you,—what do you think of spending your life as a follower of Daniel O'Connell; of being reminded every day and every hour that you have not a privilege nor a place that he did n't win for you; that he opened Parliament to you, and made you free of every guild where men of ability rise to honor? Ay, Joe! and what 's a thousand times worse,—knowing it all to be true, my boy! Take service with him once, and if you leave him you 're a renegade; remember that, and bethink you that there's no saying what crotchet he may have in store for future agitation.”
“But I never purposed any such part for myself,” broke in Nelligan.
“Never mind, it will fall to your lot for all that, if you don't quickly decide against it. What's Simmy Crow staring at? Look at him down there, he's counting every window in the street like a tax-gatherer.” And he pointed to the artist, who, shading his eyes with one hand, stood peering at every house along the little street. “What's the matter, Simmy?” cried he, opening the casement.
“It's a house I'm looking for, down here, and I forget which it is; bother them, they 're all so like at this time of the year when they 're empty.”
“Are you in search of a lodging, Simmy?”
“No, it is n't that!” said the other, curtly, and still intent on his pursuit. “Bad luck to the architect that would n't vary what they call the 'façade,' and give one some chance of finding the place again.”
“Who is it you want, man?”
“Faix, and I don't even know that same!” replied the artist; “but”—and he lowered his voice to a whisper as he spoke—“he's an elegant study,— as fine a head and face and as beautiful a beard as ever you saw. I met him at Kyle's Wood a week ago, begging; and what with his fine forehead and deep-set blue eyes, his long white hair, and his great shaggy eyebrows, I said to myself: 'Belisarius,' says I, 'by all that's grand,—a Moses, a Marino Faliero, or a monk in a back parlor discoursing to an old skull and a vellum folio,—any one of these,' says I, 'not to speak of misers, money-lenders, or magicians, as well;' and so I coaxed him down here on Saturday last, and put him somewhere to sleep, with a good supper and a pint of spirits, and may I never, if I know where I left him.”