The priest paused, regarding Hogarth with a smile, the “person” meant being Hogarth's mother; and he said: “But you are quite the Jew in dress: do you know now, then, that you are of the Chosen Race?”
“Singular notion! This is a mere disguise”.
“Ah. But you look quite radiant. You must have come into a fortune. When I heard of your escape, I said to myself—”
“How did you hear?”
“Why, from Harris”.
“Harris is drowned”.
“Harris is now under that little roof down there—there”—the prelate stabbed with his forefinger: “Harris is my shadow; Harris is my master. He was picked up naked by the ship which ran down your vessel, recognized me one day in Broadway, and threatened to give me in charge if I did not adopt him 'as my well-beloved son'. Well, from him I heard all, how you called fire from Heaven—it was gallant. But aren't you afraid of capture down here in your own country?”
“I cannot be captured”.
Those stony eyeballs of O'Hara, bulging from out circular trenches round their sockets, surveyed Hogarth, weighing, divining him, while his bottom lip, massive as the mouth of Polynesian stone gods, trembled.
“How do you mean?”