“And after, when he was under strong suspicion of having wilfully made away with Mr. Richard Poole of Dumfries, why did you say nothing?”
“Now, your honour,” exclaimed Bridget, holding up her hands, “wad I be telling aught like that to bring worse and worse on the head of any man in trouble? If it had been yourself, now, how wad you have liked that, your honour?”
“Leave me alone, Bridget. Answer what you are asked,” said the Fiscal; “when did you find out that this man was not what he pretended to be?”
“Is it the name he gave you mean, sorr?” said Bridget.
“Yes,” said the Fiscal, watching her.
“Faith, then, just when he towld it me!” was the unexpected answer. And then, moving a little nearer, she added confidentially in the Fiscal’s ear, “Would you have believed yourself, my lord, that a Black Smuggler, newly off the Golden Hind, and a shipmate of old Dick Wilkes, that died under the Wicked Flag, would be likely to give his true name and address?”
“Then, by your story, you never knew that the deceased was in truth Mr. Lalor Maitland, a member of his Majesty’s present loyal parliament?”
“Faith, as to that, no,” said Bridget, “and it’s the saints’ own pity, for if I had known that in time—it’s independent I would have been. No more wash-tubs for Bridget Connoway!”
“For shame on you, Bridget, you that are an O’Neil, and the wife of a Connoway!” cried Boyd indignantly.
“And the less you say of that, the better will the butter lie on your bread!” said Bridget, advancing a step towards him threateningly. “Your lordship, hearken to me—not an honest day’s work has that man done from January to December—nay, nor dishonest either, for the matter o’ that! ’Tis ashamed of himself he ought to be.”