“Swear him! Swear the old thief. Swear him!” was heard on all sides.
The poor old Quaker, frightened out of his life and trembling in every limb, could not make head or tail of what was going on. But when at last one of the crowd produced a Testament, and, thrusting it into the old man’s face, said: “Swear, an’ be damned to ye,” he answered in a quavering voice: “Friend, I do not swear!”
“But you’ll have to swear,” answered a dozen gruff voices.
“But he won’t have to swear,” cried out Jack Langrishe, who was supporting the lovely Dorothy, and at the same time endeavouring to afford some protection to her father.
“And who the devil are you?” shouted out a score of voices.
“I’m an Irishman, boys, that’s going to stand by a young lady and an old man if all Dublin stood against me.”
“The divel doubt but ye have an Irish heart in ye.”
“He has then.”
“And now,” said Jack, encouraged by these remarks, “now listen to me. Ye are all mistaken. This honest gentleman isn’t the man ye take him for at all.”