“Poor girl, poor, sweet girl!” said Father Brisdone. “It must not be, brother. We must fight on the other side.”
“There’ll be no need.”
“Nay, but there will. Yon spark is cunning and crafty, and he will work upon the old man till he consents. If they have designs against me, I may at any time be removed or have to flee. If this be so, I leave you to on that poor girl’s side to the very last.”
“Have you seen her lately?”
“I was there four days since for a good and pleasant hour,” said Father Brisdone, with a sigh. “Nay,” he said, smiling, “look not so suspiciously; I said no word on religion to her. What need was there when her breast is so pure and free from guile?”
Master Peasegood stretched out his broad fat hand, and pressed that of his friend.
“Thank you, brother,” he said, smiling. “It’s strange how we have drifted together. I’ll confess it; I’ve tried hard indirectly, and hoped to get thee over to our Church.”
“Not harder than I have tried indirectly with thee,” said Father Brisdone, smiling. “Ah, brother, why should we trouble ourselves about it when we are both journeying on the highway. You like to walk in boots, and I prefer sandals.”
“Hah, yes,” said Master Peasegood; “but then I do save my feet from the grit, and dust, and thorns of the way.”
“Yes, but then I travel with shaven crown and cooler head than you in your thick flap hat.”