“Rebel, Marc! Refuse, point-blank. Hold out manfully—and neither priest, nor bishop, can make you marry, if you don’t like it.”
“And then I’ll be made a world’s wonder of!” and Marc Antony groaned at the very thought. “Called out in the chapel—cursed from the altar—bundled off to Ball—trotted up Croagh Patrick—ay, and as Father Grady will stick to Kitty like a burr, I may be despatched to Lough Dharg * with gravel in my shoes.”
“Bad enough, Marc. And pray what is to be done?”
“The devil a choice have I left,” said the fosterer, with a groan, “good, bad, nor indifferent, but list or turn Protestant.”
“Awkward alternatives.”
Marc smiled. “And would I not have an elegant life of it afterwards in the servants’-hall? Sorra two men in the house that I can’t lick; but what could I do with the women? No, no, Master Hector!—I’ll list.”
“Think of it, Marc.”
“I have thought of it already. The priest and my lady will hear all in the morning, and, faith, I’ll give them leg-bail in the meantime. Are you not going to Dublin, Master Hector.”
“I am.”
“Then, by the blessin’ of God, there will be two of us there soon.”