“In lay quarrels, like enough,” said Father Jos. “In church quarrels, it don’t become a good Catholic to say that.”
“What?” said Corny.
“That,” said the priest.
“Which?” said Corny.
“That which you said, that there’s faults on both sides; sure there’s but one side, and that’s our own side, can be in the right there can’t be two right sides, can there? and consequently there won’t be two wrong sides, will there?—Ergo, there cannot, by a parity of rasoning, be two sides in the wrong.”
“Well, Harry, I’ll take the black men now, and gammon you,” said Corny. “Play away, man—what are you thinking of? is it of what Father Jos said? ‘tis beyond the limits of the human understanding.”
Father Jos puffed away at his pipe for some time.
“I was tired and ashamed of all the wrangling for two-pence with the last man,” said King Corny, “and I believe I was sometimes too hard and too hot myself; but if this man’s a gentleman, I think we shall agree. Did you hear his name, or any thing at all about him, Father?”
“He is one of them refugee families, the Huguenots, banished France by the adict of Nantz, they say, and his name’s Cambray.”
“Cambray!” exclaimed Ormond.