"If you keep your word, this will suit me," said Burns, with gloomy cordiality.
"And me," echoed Watkins.
"And me," responded Potts.
"But it will not suit me!" cried a strange voice, which started the whole company to their feet. The voice came from behind the hangings which concealed the bed. It was a firm voice, and deep as a well.
"It will not suit me, I say," and from the hangings the unknown speaker emerged with a measured stride.
He was a tall man, somewhat bent in the shoulders, and wore a long cloak, of an antique fashion, which was fastened to his neck by a golden clasp. His white hairs were covered by an old-fashioned fur-cap; his eyes hidden by large green glasses, and the furred collar of his cloak, concealed the lower part of his face. An aged man, evidently, as might be seen by his snow-white hair, and the wrinkles on the exposed portion of his face, but his step was strong and measured, and his voice firm and clear.
"And who are you?" cried Bulgin, recovering from his surprise. His remark was chorused by the others.
"A pew-holder in your church," emphatically exclaimed the cloaked individual. "Let that suffice you. Gentlemen,"—turning his back on Bulgin, he lifted his cap and exposed his forehead to the three gentlemen,—"you know me?"
With one impulse, they pronounced a name; and it was plainly to be seen that they respected that name, and its owner.
"This compromise does not suit me," said the cloaked gentleman, turning abruptly to Bulgin. "You are a villain, sir. It is men like you who bring the Gospel of Christ into contempt. You are an atheist, sir. It is men like you who fill the world with infidels. I have borne with you long enough. I will bear with you no longer. You shall be exposed, sir."