“Who are you after now? and what do you want with O’Lacey?” he slowly asked, when he had done thinking.
He was a keen-eyed, intelligent man, beloved as much for his acuteness as for his benevolence, and I saw that his eyes were reading every line and expression of my face—much as I have seen those of an anxious mother do when I have asked for her son.
“Never mind what I want, but tell me where he lives,” I laughingly replied. “I want to see him, if you will know.”
The priest made no answer for a full minute.
“Mr McGovan,” he said at last, with a tremor of deep feeling in his tones, “perhaps I know what you’re seeking, and perhaps I don’t. But answer me one question—do you believe me? can you depend on my word of honour as a Christian gentleman?”
“From my soul I can!” I warmly responded, grasping his proffered hand.
“Well, then, take my advice, and don’t show your face in that land to-day. If you do, I think what you seek will be destroyed. Wait another day, and I will try to help you all I can. The man O’Lacey has been very ill, and he believes it is the visitation of God, which I do myself,” and he lifted his hat and looked reverently upwards. “Will you have patience for another day, especially when I assure you, on my soul’s salvation, that by going there now you will not get, and never see, what you’re after?”
“I will,” I answered, after revolving the proposition for a moment or two, and so we parted.
Next day a starch box, wrapped in brown paper and addressed to me, was handed into the office. Inside, in many folds of paper, was the captain’s chronometer, in its chamois leather cover, bright, beautiful, and perfect as when it left the maker’s hands. Pinned to it was a paper, on which were badly written these words—
“A contrite sinner restores what was wickedly stolen, and lifts a mighty load off his mind.”