“I thought you knew it, sir,” said Darby, “or if you didn't, why did you read me out the Sunday before last from the althar?”
“Then you acknowledge it,” cried the priest, “you have the brass to acknowledge it, have you?” And here the whip made a most ferocious sweep in the air.
“Yes,” replied Darby, thinking by the admission to increase the impending castigation—“yes, sir; I don't belong to your flock now—you have no authority whatsomever over me—mind that.”
“Haven't I indeed, Mr. Convert—oh, what a sweet convert you are—but we'll see whether I have or not, by and by. Where are you bound for now? To taste of Mr. Lucre's flesh pots? eh?”
“I'm bound for Mr. Lucre's, sure enough; and I hope there's no great harm in that.”
“Oh, none in the world, my worthy neophyte, none. Mr. Lucre's argument and Lord ——'s bacon are very powerful during this hard season. Those that haven't a stitch to their backs are clothed—those that haven't a morsel to eat are fed—and if they haven't a fire, they get plenty of fuel to burn their apostate skins at; and because this heretical crew avail themselves of the destitution of these wretches—and lure them from their own faith by a blanket and a flitch of bacon, they call that conversion—the new Reformation by the way, ha—ha—ha—oh, it's too good!”
“And do you think, sir,” said Darby, “that if they had a hard or an enlightened hoult of their own creed, that that would do it?”
The whip here described a circle, one part of whose circumference sang within a few inches of Darby's ear—who, forgetting his relish for martyrdom, drew back his head to avoid it.