“St. Patrick was never born in Ireland,” cried the one.
“St. Patrick was never born anywhere else,” retorted the other.
“I tell you, by the Mass, that St. Patrick was a Scot.”
“I tell you, by St. Peter, he was not.”
And thus they wrangled until we had reached the gate, where I perceived the noise they made had already attracted the notice of the watch. Without appearing to pay any attention to the soldiers, I nodded now to the Franciscan on my right, and now to him on my left, as if I followed their words intently.
All my senses, however, were on the stretch, and my heart throbbed and fluttered in my breast, for the danger was great.
“’Tis Father Ambrose and Father Gregory,” I heard one of the soldiers say, “and another of the fathers.” Then he glanced at me inquiringly, but only asked, “To the Church of St. Nicholas, fathers?”
“Yes,” was the reply, and we were passing in when an officer of the Governor’s came down the street, and, scowling at us, bade us halt.
“Whither go ye?” he demanded gruffly.
“To the Church of St. Nicholas,” said we as with one voice, for I had made up my mind to go thither also.