“That would be bad.”
“Of course it would. Though, Monsieur Murdock, many men situated as you, instead of grieving over such an accident, would but rejoice at it.”
“No doubt they would. But what’s the use of talking of a thing not likely to happen?”
“Oh, true! Still, boat accidents being of such common occurrence, one is as likely to befall Mademoiselle Wynn as anybody else. A pity if it should—a misfortune! But so is the other thing.”
“What other thing?”
“That such a property as Llangorren should be in the hands of heretics, having but a lame title too. If what I’ve heard be true, you yourself have as much right to it as your cousin. It were better it belonged to a true son of the Church, as I know you to be, M’sieu.”
Murdock receives the compliment with a grimace. He is no hypocrite; still with all his depravity he has a sort of respect for religion, or rather its outward forms—regularly attends Rogier’s chapel, and goes through all the ceremonies and genuflexions, just as the Italian bandit after cutting a throat will drop on his knees and repeat a paternoster at hearing the distant bell of the Angelus.
“A very poor one,” he replies, with a half smile, half grin.
“In a worldly sense, you mean? I’m aware, you’re not very rich.”
“In more senses than that. Your Reverence, I’ve been a great sinner, I admit.”