“Then we've made the ould boy see that we mane it,” said Pete.
“'If you know any one of the ringleaders, Deemster,' he said, with a look into my face—somebody had been with him—there are tell-tales everywhere——”
“It's the way of the world still,” said Pete.
“'Tell him,' said he, 'that I don't want to take the life of any man—I don't want to send any one to penal servitude.'” It was useless to protest. The man was mad, but he was in earnest. His plan was folly—frantic folly—but it was based on a sort of legal right. “So, for the Lord's sake, Pete, stop this thing. Stop it at once, and finally. It's life or death. If ever you thought my word worth anything, you'll do as I bid you, now. God knows where I should be myself if the Governor were to do what he threatens. Stop it, stop it; I haven't slept for thinking of it.”
Pete had been sitting at the table, chewing the tip of the pen, and now he lifted to the paleness and wildness of Philip's face a cool, bold smile.
“It's good of you, Phil.... We've a right to be there, though, haven't we?”
“You've a right, certainly, but——”
“Then, by gough, we'll go,” said Pete, dropping the pen, and bringing his fist down on the table.
“The penalty will be yours, Pete—yours. You are the man who will suffer—you first—you alone.”
Pete smiled again. “No use—I'm incorr'iblê. I'm like Dan-ny-Clae, the sheep-stealer, when he came to die. 'I'm going to eternal judgment—what'll I do?' says Dan. 'Give back all you've stolen,' says the parzon. 'I'll chance it first,' says the ould rascal. It's the other fellow that's for stealing this time; but I'll chance it, Philip. Death it may be, and judgment too, but I'll chance it, boy.”