“'Twas a blessed gospel he gave him,” said Mary, who did not comprehend the French portion of the story, “and sure it's as good as any thing.”
“We all thought so, Mary. Poor Maurice related the story at Lyons, when he was led out to the guillotine—but though the Commissaire laughed heartily, and enjoyed it much, they had found a breviary in his portmanteau, and they couldn't let him off. Pauvre bête! To travel about the world with the 'pièce de conviction' in his possession. What, Harry, no more wine?”
“I thank you, no more for me, although that claret is a temptation.”
“A bouquet, every glass of it! What say you, Master Lawler—does it suit your palate?”
“I begin to think it a taste cold, or so, by this time,” said Lanty; “I'm not genteel enough for wine, God help me—but it's time to turn in, any how—and there's Mary asleep already.”
“I don't stir till I finish the flask,” said Jacques, firmly; “and if you won't drink, you needn't grudge me your company. It's hard to say when we meet again. You go northward, Talbot, isn't that so?
“Yes, and that's the point I wish to come to—where and how shall I find a mount?—I depended on this priest you spoke of to meet me, but he has not made his appearance.”
“You never fell upon your legs more fortunately—here's your man for a horse, all Ireland over. Eh, Lanty, what's to be had now?”
“Devil a thing can be got for love or money,” said Lanty. “If the gentleman only told me yesterday—”
“Yesterday, Master Lanty, we were riding white horses in the Western Ocean—but that's gone by—let us talk of to-day.”