“Then,” observed Lawless, with increasing austerity, “you richly deserve—”
“George!” said the Reverend Frank sharply, “you are in my parish just now, and I expect you to respect my wishes. Throw your plaids, sticks, and bonnets behind that bush, my lads—well out of sight—so. Now, cast your coats, and join us in our game.”
The fugitives understood and swiftly obeyed him. While they were hastily stripping off their coats Selby took his brother curate aside, and, looking him sternly in the face, said— “Now, George Lawless, if you by word or look interfere with my plans, I will give you cause to repent it to the latest day of your life.”
If any one had seen the countenance of the Reverend George at that moment he would have observed that it became suddenly clothed with an air of meekness that was by no means attractive.
At the time we write of, any curate might, with the assistance of the soldiers, fine whom he pleased, and as much as he pleased, or he might, by reporting a parishioner an absentee from public worship, consign him or her to prison, or even to the gallows. But though all the curates were in an utterly false position they were not all equally depraved. Selby was one who felt more or less of shame at the contemptible part he was expected to play.
When the troopers came thundering round the corner of the manse a few minutes later, Quentin Dick, in his shirt sleeves, was in the act of making a beautiful throw, and Will Wallace was watching him with interest. Even the Reverend George seemed absorbed in the game, for he felt that the eyes of the Reverend Frank were upon him.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said the officer in command of the soldiers, “did you see two shepherds run past here?”
“No,” answered the Reverend Frank with a candid smile, “I saw no shepherds run past here.”
“Strange!” returned the officer, “they seemed to enter your shrubbery and to disappear near the house.”
“Did you see the path that diverges to the left and takes down to the thicket in the hollow?” asked Selby.