“No,” jocularly returns the priest; “I don’t suppose there is. If it be your fate to perish by asphyxia—as no doubt it is—strong tough hemp, and not weak water, will be the agent employed—that being more appropriate to the life you have led. Ha! ha! ha!”
Coracle laughs too, but with the grimace of wolf baying the moon. For the moonlight shining full in his face, shows him not over satisfied with the coarse jest. But remembering how he shifted that treacherous plank bridging the brook at Abergann he silently submits to it. He may not much longer. He, too, is gradually getting his hand upon a lever, which will enable him to have a say in the affairs of Llangorren Court, that they dwelling therein will listen to him, or, like the Philistines of Gaza, have it dragged down about their ears.
But the ex-poacher is not yet prepared to enact the rôle of Samson; and however galling the jeu d’esprit of the priest, he swallows it without showing chagrin, far less speaking it.
In truth there is no time for further exchange of speech, at least in the skiff. By this they have arrived at the Rugg’s Ferry landing-place, where Father Rogier, getting out, whispers a few words in Coracle’s ear, and then goes off.
His words were—
“A hundred pounds, Dick, if you do it. Twice that for your doing it adroitly!”