“Stop!” cried I, maddened by this taunt. “What could I have done? where was my place?”
“Don't ask me; if your own heart doesn't teach thee, how can I? But it's over now; the day is gone, and I must take to the road again. My heart is lighter since I seen you; and it will be lighter again when I give you this wamin',—God knows if you 'll mind it. You think yourself safe now since you joined the sodgers; you think they trust you, and that Barton's eye is n't on ye still. There is n't a word you say is n't noted down,—not a man you spake to isn't watched. You don't know it; but I know it. There 's more go to the gallows in Ireland over their wine, than with the pike in their hands. Take care of your friends, I say.”
“You wrong them. Darby; and you wrong me. Never have I heard from one here a single word that could offend the proudest heart among us.”
“Why would they? what need of it? Ar'n't we down, down? ar'n't we hunted like wild beasts? is the roof left to shelter us? dare we walk the roads? dare we say 'God save ye!' when we meet, and not be tried for pass words? It 's no wonder they pity us; the hardest heart must melt sometimes.”
“As to myself,” said I,—for there was no use in attempting to reason with him further,—“my every wish is with the cause as warmly as on the day we parted. But I look to France—”
“Ay, and why not? I remember the time your eye flashed and your cheek grew another color when you spoke of that.”
“Yes, Darby,” said I, after a pause; “and I had not been here now, but that the only means I possessed of forwarding myself in the French service are unfortunately lost to me.”
“And what was that?” interrupted he, eagerly.
“Some letters which the poor Captain de Meudon gave me,” said I, endeavoring to seem as much at ease as I could.
Darby stooped down as I spoke, and ripping open the lining of his cloak, produced a small parcel fastened with a cord, saying, “Are these what you mean?”