“We should be friends, sir,” said he, “for we both have suffered from a common enemy. If I am at liberty to leave this—”
“You are not, sir,” interposed a deep voice behind. We turned and beheld Major Barton. “The massacre at Kil-macshogue has yet to be atoned for.”
Fortescue's face grew actually livid at the mention of the word, and his breathing became thick and short.
“Here,” continued Barton, “is the warrant for your committal. And you also, Darby,” said he, turning round; “we want your company once more in Newgate.”
“Bedad, I suppose there's no use in sending an apology when friends is so pressing,” said he, buttoning his coat as coolly as possible; “but I hope you 'll let the master come in to see me.”
“Mr. Burke shall be admitted at all times,” said Barton, with an obsequious civility I had never witnessed in him previously.
“Faix, maybe you 'll not be for letting him out so aisy,” said Darby, dryly, for his notions of justice were tempered by a considerable dash of suspicion.
I had only time left to press my purse into the honest fellow's hand, and salute Fortescue hastily, as they both were removed, under the custody of Barton. And I now made my way through the crowd into the hall, which opened a line for me as I went; a thousand welcomes meeting me from those who felt as anxious about the result of the trial as if a brother or a dear friend had been in peril.
One face caught my eye as I passed; and partly from my own excitement, partly from its expression being so different from its habitual character, I could not recognize it as speedily as I ought to have done. Again and again it appeared; and at last, as I approached the door into the street, it was beside me.
“If I might dare to express my congratulations,” said a voice, weak from the tremulous anxiety of the speaker, and the shame which, real or affected, seemed to bow him down.