"Has your reverence ever seen a white polecat?" said the keeper.
"No, never," said the priest; "I have heard of them though. My friend, Mr. Moriarty, of Castledown (not Mountdown Castle, ye understand; that is the sate of my Lord Mountdown, whose blessed mother was a Moriarty, the heavens be her bed), claimed to have seen one; but, bedad, no one else ever saw it, and he said it turned brown again as the season came round. May the—may the saints have my sowl if I believe a word of it."
"I have one, your reverence; and it is a rarity, I allow. Stoats turn white often in hard winters, but polecats rarely. If your reverence and your honour will excuse me a moment, I will fetch it. It was shot by my Lord Welter when he was staying here last winter. A fine shot is my lord, your reverence, for so young a man."
He left the room, and the priest and Charles were left alone together.
"Does he believe all this rubbish about witches?" said Father Tiernay.
"As firmly as you do the liquefaction of the blood of——"
"There, there; we don't want all that. Do you believe in it?"
"Of course I don't," said Charles; "but why should I tell him so?"
"Why do you lend yourself to such humbug?"