"One hundred during the year and the thousand pounds to-night, sir."
"Let us end this useless discussion," snarled McDermot, rising from the easy chair he had occupied until now.
"No," cried Moore, "you shall not deny me. I 'll give you a bargain you cannot refuse, sir. Give me one thousand pounds which shall be payment in full for the long poem, and I will write when and how you will for the next year at your own price. Yes, I will do this and bless you for it. Oh, sir, it means more than life to me. It is my whole future. It's love, it's honor. I beg that you will not use my extremity to drive me to despair. Surely my work is worth as much as it was a week ago when you would have gladly accepted such terms as I offer you now?"
"That is not the question," replied McDermot, coldly. "Ha' the goodness to get out o' my way, Mr. Moore."
Moore seized the publisher by the arm.
"An old man's liberty, perhaps his life; the happiness and good name of a mere girl depend upon me, sir. I have no other way of raising the money. Have pity."
"I am sorry," began McDermot in cold, merciless tones, but he got no farther.
"Then dictate your own terms, sir. I must have one thousand pounds. For that sum I will bind myself to anything you may propose."
"Ye mean that, Mr. Moore?"
"I do, sir."