“Ah, Mr O’Hara,” said Bayle, holding out his hand, “I have not seen you for months. Why do you not give me a call?”
“Because I am a convict, sir,” said the young Irishman, paying no heed to the extended hand.
“Oh, yes; but that is past now,” said Bayle. “One doesn’t look upon you as one would upon a thief or a swindler, and even if you had been both these worthies, a man of my cloth comes to preach forgiveness, and is ready to hold out the right hand to every man who is sorry for the past.”
“But I am not sorry for the past, sir,” said O’Hara firmly.
“I’ve studied it all,” said Bayle quietly, “and the rising was a mistake.”
“Don’t talk about it, please, sir,” said O’Hara hotly. “You are an Englishman. You could not gaze upon that trouble, for which I was transported, from an Irishman’s point of view.”
“Then we will not talk about it,” said Bayle; “but come, I am no enemy of your country.”
“I should say, sir, that you were never any man’s enemy but your own,” said O’Hara dryly.
Bayle smiled.
“There, shake hands,” he said. “How has the world been using you?”