The officer kept his eyes fixed on the distant horizon. His lips twitched under the mustache with a movement that might signify temptation, but more probably reflected an impulse to tell his questioner to go to the devil. Whichever it was he said nothing.
The O’Mahony spoke again, with the least suspicion of acerbity in his tone.
“See here,” he said; “don’t flatter yourself that I’m worryin’ much whether you take a drink or not; an’ I’m not a man that’s much given to takin’ slack from anybody, whether they wear shoulder-straps or not. You’re my pris’ner. I took you—took you myself, an’ let you have a good lively rassle for your money. It wasn’t jest open an’ aboveboard, p’r’aps, but then you was layin’ there with your men hid, dependin’ on a sneak an’ a traitor to deliver me an’ my fellows into your hands. So it’s as broad as ’tis long. Only I don’t want to make it especially rough for you, an’ I thought I’d offer you a drink, an’ have a talk with you about what’s to be done next. But if you’re too mad to talk or drink, either, why, I kin wait till you cool down.”
Once more the officer looked up, and this time, after some hesitation, he spoke, stiffly; “I should like some whisky and water, if you have it—and will be good enough,” he said.
The O’Mahony brought the beverage from below with his own hand. Then, as on a sudden thought, he took out his knife, knelt down and cut all the cords which still bound the other’s limbs.
The officer got gingerly up on his feet, kicked his legs out straight and stretched his arms.
“I wish you had done that before,” he said, taking the glass and eagerly drinking off the contents.
“I dunno why I didn’t think of it,” said The O’Mahony, with genuine regret. “Fact is, I had so many other things on my mind. This findin’ yourself sold out by a fellow that you trusted with your life is enough to kerflummux any man.”
“That ought not to surprise any Irishman, I should think,” said the other, curtly. “However much Irish conspiracies may differ in other respects, they’re invariably alike in one thing. There’s always an Irishman who sells the secret to the government.”
The O’Mahony made no immediate answer. The bitter remark had suddenly suggested to him the possibility that all the other movements in Cork and Kerry, planned for that day, had also been betrayed! He had been too gravely occupied with his own concerns to give this a thought before. As he turned the notion over now in his mind, it assumed the form of a settled conviction of universal treachery.