Bernard was not at all dismayed by this shift in the situation.
“Call it what you like,” he answered. “See here, major,” he went on, in a burst of confidence, “this whole thing’s got nothing to do with politics or the potato crop or anything else that need concern you. It’s purely a private family matter. In a day or two, it’ll be in such shape that I can tell you all about it. For that matter, I could now, only it’s such a deuce of a long story.”
The major thought again.
“All right,” he said. “You can see the prisoners in my presence, and then I’ll give you a chance to produce O’Daly. I ought to warn you, though, that it may be all used against you, later on.”
“I’m not afraid of that,” replied Bernard.
A minute later, he was following the resident magistrate up a winding flight of narrow stone stairs, none too clean. A constable, with a bunch of keys jingling in his hand, preceded them, and, at the top, threw open a heavy, iron-cased door. The solitary window of the room they entered had been so blocked with thick bars of metal that very little light came through. Bernard, with some difficulty, made out two figures lying in one corner on a heap of straw and old cast-off clothing.
“Get up! Here’s some one to see you!” called out the major, in the same tone he had used to the constables while they were helping on the overcoat.
Bernard, as he heard it, felt himself newly informed as to the spirit in which India was governed. Perhaps it was necessary there; but it made him grind his teeth to think of its use in Ireland.
The two figures scrambled to their feet, and Bernard shook hands with both.
“Egor, sir, you’re a sight for sore eyes!” exclaimed Jerry, effusively, wringing the visitor’s fingers in his fat clasp. “Are ye come to take us out?”