“You must unsay these words, sir,” said the priest in an accent as stern and commanding as Mark's own; “I was never a party to any fraud, nor was I in this country when your father sold his estates.”
“I care not how it happened,” cried Mark, passionately. “When my own father could do this thing, it matters little to me who were his accomplices;” and he tore the paper in fragments, and scattered them over the floor. “Another and a very different cause brought me here. The French fleet has arrived.”
The priest here muttered something in a low tone, to which Mark quietly replied—
“And if they have, it is because their anchors were dragging; you would not have the vessels go ashore on the rocks; the next tide they'll stand up the Bay again. The people that should have been ready to welcome them, hold back. The whole country round is become suddenly craven; of the hundreds that rallied round me a month since, seventeen appeared this morning, and they were wretches more eager for pillage than the field of honourable warfare. It is come then to this, you either come forth, at once, to harangue the people, and recall them to their sworn allegiance, or the expedition goes on without you—go on it shall.”
Here he turned sharply round, and said a few words in French, to which the person addressed replied—
“Certainly; the French Republic does not send a force like this for the benefit of a sea voyage.”
“Desert the cause, then,” continued Mark, in a tone of denunciation; “desert us, and by G—d, your fate will be worse than that of our more open enemies. To-night the force will land; to-morrow we march all day, aye and all night too: the blazing chapels shall light the way.”
“Take care, rash boy, take care; the vengeance of outraged heaven is more terrible than you think of. Whatever be the crime and guilt of others, remember that you are an Irishman; that what the alien may do in recklessness, is sacrilege in him who is the son of the soil.”
“Save me, then, from this guilt—save me from myself,” cried Mark, in an accent of tender emotion. “I cannot desert this cause, and oh, do not make it one of dishonour to me.”
The old man seemed overcome by this sudden appeal to his affections, and made no reply, and the deep breathing of Mark, as his chest heaved in strong emotion, was the only sound in the stillness. Herbert, who had hitherto listened with that vague half consciousness of reality excessive fatigue inflicts, became suddenly aware that the eventful moment was come, when, should the priest falter or hesitate, Mark might succeed in his request, and all hope of rescuing him be lost for ever. With the energy of a desperate resolve he sprang forward, and entered the room just as the priest was about to reply.