"I'm no d----d papist," replied Cornbury, in a sulky tone.
"Lead him on then."
Cornbury was led to the western edge of the flat, where the cliff was most high and precipitous, and then made to kneel down.
"Fitzpatrick," said the leader, pointing to the condemned.
Fitzpatrick walked up to the kneeling man with his loaded pistol, and then the others, who had led Cornbury to the edge of the cliff, retired.
Fitzpatrick cocked the lock.
"Would you like to say, 'God have mercy on my treacherous sinful sowl,' or anything short and sweet like that?" said Fitzpatrick; "if so, I'll wait a couple of seconds more for your convanience, Philip Cornbury."
Cornbury made no reply. Fitzpatrick put the pistol to his ear, the ball whizzed through his brain, the body half raised itself from its knees with a strong muscular action, and then toppled over and disappeared down the side of the precipice.
"It's to be hoped that the next time you lave this world, Master Cornbury, it will be in a purliter sort of manner. A civil question demands a civil answer anyhow," said Fitzpatrick, coolly rejoining the other men.