“My poor fellow!—Wait!—you’ll be better just now, I hope,” said Ormond, laying his hand on Moriarty’s shoulder.
“I’ll never be better of it, I fear,” said Moriarty, withdrawing his shoulder; and giving a jealous glance at the rose, he turned his head away again.
“I’ll thank your honour to go on, and leave me—I’ll be better by myself. It is not to your honour, above all, that I can open my heart.”
A suspicion of the truth now flashed across Ormond’s mind—he was determined to know whether it was the truth or not.
“I’ll not leave you, till I know what’s the matter,” said he.
“Then none will know that till I die,” said Moriarty; adding, after a little pause, “there’s no knowing what’s wrong withinside of a man till he is opened.”
“But alive, Moriarty, if the heart is in the case only,” said Ormond, “a man can open himself to a friend.”
“Ay, if he had a friend,” said Moriarty. “I’ll beg your honour to let me pass—I am able for it now—I am quite stout again.”
“Then if you are quite stout again, I shall want you to row me across the lake.”
“I am not able for that, sir,” replied Moriarty, pushing past him.