“And tha flings me off?”
“I fling thee off.”
The angry colour came to his face, some of the old fire to his eye. He sprang to his feet, something of a man once more.
“And is this thi trust and this thi loyalty; hast ta forgotten thi oath, Ben?”
“I have forgotten nought, George.”
“And yo’ desert the Luds? Our greatest enemy lies low. I have struck the blow that others feared to strike, and terror palsies the oppressors of the poor. And in the supreme hour of our triumph you draw back?”
“I draw back.”
“You brave the consequences of your broken oath, you earn for yourself the hatred of the poor, the obloquy and the doom of the traitor?”
“I brave them.”
“Then out upon you, Ben Bamforth, for a false and perjured knave. The hour of trial and of danger has come, and it finds thee false. Oh! bitter the day and cursed the hour I took yo’ to my heart, and bitter the rue thou’st sup for this. And yo’ Mary, I’ve a word to say to yo’. But cannot I speak to thee alone?”