Boyne had not counted on Dyck’s refusal; or, if it had occurred to him, the remedy, an ancient one, was ready to his fingers. The wine was drugged. He had watched the decline of Dyck’s fortunes with an eye of appreciation; he had seen the clouds of poverty and anxiety closing in. He had known of old Miles Calhoun’s financial difficulties. He had observed Dyck’s wayside loitering with revolutionists, and he had taken it with too much seriousness. He knew the condition of Dyck’s purse.
He was not prepared for Dyck’s indignant outburst.
“I tell you this, Erris Boyne, there’s none has ever tried me as you have done! What do you think I am—a thing of the dirty street-corner, something to be swept up and cast into the furnace of treason? Look you, after to-day you and I will never break bread or drink wine together. No—by Heaven, no! I don’t know whether you’ve told me the truth or not, but I think you have. There’s this to say—I shall go from this place to Dublin Castle, and shall tell them there—without mentioning your name—what you’ve told about the French raid. Now, by God, you’re a traitor! You oughtn’t to live, and if you’ll send your seconds to me I’ll try and do with you as I did with Leonard Mallow. Only mark me, Erris Boyne, I’ll put my sword into your heart. You understand—into your filthy heart!”
At that moment the door of the room opened, and a face looked in for an instant-the face of old Swinton, the landlord of the Harp and Crown. Suddenly Boyne’s look changed. He burst into a laugh, and brought his fists down on the table between them with a bang.
“By Joseph and by Mary, but you’re a patriot, Calhoun! I was trying to test you. I was searching to find the innermost soul of you. The French fleet, my commission in the French army, and my story about the landlord are all bosh. If I meant what I told you, do you think I’d have been so mad as to tell you so much, damn it? Have you no sense, man? I wanted to find out exactly how you stood-faithful or unfaithful to the crown—and I’ve found out. Sit down, sit down, Calhoun, dear lad. Take your hand off your sword. Remember, these are terrible days. Everything I said about Ireland is true. What I said about France is false. Sit down, man, and if you’re going to join the king’s army—as I hope and trust you will—then here’s something to help you face the time between.” He threw on the table a packet of notes. “They’re good and healthy, and will buy you what you need. There’s not much. There’s only a hundred pounds, but I give it to you with all my heart, and you can pay it back when the king’s money comes to you, or when you marry a rich woman.”
He said it all with a smile on his face. It was done so cleverly, with so much simulated sincerity, that Dyck, in his state of semi-drunkenness, could not, at the instant, place him in his true light. Besides, there was something handsome and virile in Boyne’s face—and untrue; but the untruth Dyck did not at the moment see.
Never in his life had Boyne performed such prodigies of dissimulation. He was suddenly like a schoolboy disclosing the deeds of some adventurous knight. He realized to the full the dangers he had run in disclosing the truth; for it was the truth that he had told.
So serious was the situation, to his mind, that one thing seemed inevitable. Dyck must be kidnapped at once and carried out of Ireland. It would be simple. A little more drugged wine, and he would be asleep and powerless—it had already tugged at him. With the help of his confreres in the tavern, Dyck could be carried out, put on a lugger, and sent away to France.
There was nothing else to do. Boyne had said truly that the French fleet meant to come soon. Dyck must not be able to give the thing away before it happened. The chief thing now was to prime him with the drugged wine till he lost consciousness, and then carry him away to the land of the guillotine. Dyck’s tempestuous nature, the poetry and imagination of him, would quickly respond to French culture, to the new orders of the new day in France. Meanwhile, he must be soaked in drugged drink.
Already the wine had played havoc with him; already stupefaction was coming over his senses. With a good-natured, ribald laugh, Boyne poured out another glass of marsala and pushed it gently over to Dyck’s fingers.