“Well, church, thin, sor. That’s what they say it was. The little wan wid the stone picture of the owld gintleman sitting over the door.”
“That square temple?”
“Yis, sor. It’s all the same. The haythens who lived out here didn’t know any betther, and the prastes were a bad lot, so they used to worship the owld gintleman, and give him a prisoner ivery now and then cut up aloive.”
“Nonsense! How do you know that?”
“Faix, it’s written on the stones so; and we found them althers wid places for the blood to run, and knives made out of flint-glass. It’s thrue enough.”
“But what about the temple?”
“Sure, it is the divil’s temple, sor,” said Dinny, with a twinkle of the eye; “and the skipper said it was just the place for it, so he fills it full of our divil’s dust.”
“Money?”
“An’ is it money? That’s all safe in another place, wid silver and gowld bars from the mines, as we tuk in ships, and gowld cups, sor. That’s put away safe, for it’s no use here, where there isn’t a whisky-shop to go and spend it. No, sor; divil’s dust, the black gunpowther.”
“Oh, the magazine! Well, what of that?”