“It is indeed.”
“Seems as if the very Fates were in a conspiracy to favour our design. If we fail now, ’twill be our own fault. And that reminds me there should be no waste of time—must not. One hour of this darkness may be worth an age—or at all events ten thousand pounds per annum. Allons! vite-vite?”
He steps briskly onward, drawing his caped cloak closer to protect him from the rain, now running in rivers down the drooping branches of the trees.
Murdock follows; and the two, delayed by a dialogue of such grave character, draw closer to the third who had gone ahead. They do not overtake him, however, till after he has reached the boat, and therein deposited a bundle he has been bearing—of weight sufficient to make him stagger, where the ground was rough and uneven. It is a package of irregular oblong shape, and such size, that laid along the boat’s bottom timbers it occupies most part of the space forward of the mid-thwart.
Seeing that he who has thus disposed of it, is Coracle Dick, one might believe it poached salmon, or land game now in season in the act of being transported to some receiver of such commodities. But the words spoken by the priest as he comes up forbid this belief: they are an interrogatory:—
“Well, mon bracconier; have you stowed my luggage?”
“It’s in the boat, Father Rogier.”
“And all ready for starting?”
“The minute your reverence steps in.”
“So, well! And now, M’sieu,” he adds, turning to Murdock, and again speaking in undertone, “if you play your part skilfully, on return I may find you in a fair way of getting installed as the Lord of Llangorren. Till then, adieu!”