A brief silence ensued, during which Mark paced the room with slow and heavy steps, then ceasing suddenly he said—
“Why was it, then, that we never heard of these scruples before, sir?—why were we not told that unbelieving France was no fitting ally for saintly Ireland? But why do I ask: had the whole fleet arrived in safety—were there not thirteen missing vessels, we should hear less of such Christian doubts.”
“You are unjust, Mark,” said the priest, calmly; “you know me too well and too long, to put any faith in your reproaches. I refuse to address the people, because I would not see them fall, or even conquer, in an unjust cause. Raise the banner of the Church——”
“The banner of the Church!” said Mark, with a mocking laugh.
“What does he say?” whispered a third voice, in French, as a new speaker mingled in the dialogue.
“He talks of the banner of the Church!” said Mark, scoffingly.
“'Oui, parbleu,' if he likes it,” replied the Frenchman, laughing; “it smacks somewhat of the middle ages; but the old proverb is right, 'a bad etiquette never spoiled good wine.'”
“Is it then in full canonicals, and with the smoke of censers, we are to march against the Saxon?” said Mark, with a taunting sneer.
“Hear me out, Mark,” interrupted the priest; “I didn't say that we were yet prepared even for this; there is much to be done, far more indeed than you wot of. Every expedition insufficiently planned and badly supported, must be a failure; every failure retards the accomplishment of our hopes; such must this enterprise be, if now——'
“Now or never,” interposed Mark, as he struck the table violently with his clenched hand—“now, or never, for me at least. You have shown me to these Frenchman, as a fool or worse. One with influence, and yet without a man to back me—with courage, and you tell me to desert them—with the confidence of my countrymen, and I come alone, unaccompanied, unaccredited, to tell my own tale amongst them. What other indignities have you in store for me, or in what other light am I next to figure? But for that, and perhaps you would dare to go further, and say I am not an O'Donoghue;” and in his passion Mark tore open a pocket-book, and held before the old man's eyes the certificate of his baptism, written in the priest's hand. “Yes, you have forced me to speak, of what I ever meant to have buried in my own heart. There it is, read it, and bethink you, how it becomes him who helped to rob me of my inheritance, to despoil me of my honour also.”