Then he began to talk about the state of the country, and of the bad odour he had fallen into with his brother magistrates.
“They suspect me of being in with the rebels, Gallagher, as if I had cause to love them. On my soul, if I’m to be suspected, it sometimes seems I might as well be so with reason as without. Suppose, for the sake of argument, Gallagher, I took their precious oath—suppose it, I say, how should I stand then? By all appearances, Ireland is going to be delivered; and it will be a bad day when she comes into her own for those who withstood her. Should I be worse off by joining them? I’m told they are ready to welcome any man of position and landed interest on their side. It might be an opportunity of doing some service to my fellow countrymen. Besides, when a daughter’s liberty is at stake, one does not stand at sacrifice. They hate me now because I have been instrumental in thwarting them. By winning me over they would be rid of an obstacle; and all the favour I have shown them in the past in the matter of the arms, and allowing some of them to slip through the fingers of the law, would stand to my credit. Why, Gallagher,” added he, growing quite excited at the vision, “in the new Irish Government I should be a man of mark; and my fortune, instead of being confiscated, would be my own, and at the service of my friends. Why, you and Tim—”
“Are you so sure that fortune is your own now?” said I, losing my self-restraint at last.
He turned a little whiter as he glared round at me.
“You mean that improbable story of the changeling at Kilgorman,” said he, with a forced laugh. “As pure moonshine as ever was, and beyond all proof even if it wasn’t.”
“You forget Biddy McQuilkin has been found.”
“Did she say anything?” he demanded.
“She did, on her oath.”
“And, pray, what was her version of this wonderful story?”
“She told me all I needed to know—that is, which of us two was Terence Gorman’s son.”