“Faith, and wid great respect, the same is but a poor argument for your own—hem—I mane, sir, for your church; for if the best beef and mutton be of the thrue religion, the Protestants have it all to nothing. There, they're infallible, and no mistake. The fat o' the land, your reverence,” said Darby, with a wink; “don't you understand? They've got that any how.”
A slight cut of the whip across the shoulders made him jump and rub himself, whilst the priest, struck with his utter want of principle, exclaimed.
“You double-dealing scoundrel, how dare you wink at me, as if we felt anything in common?”
The blow occasioned Darby's gorge to rise; for like every other knave, when conscious of his own dishonesty, and its detection, he felt his bad passions overpower him.
“You must,” said the priest, whose anger was now excited by his extraordinary assurance—“you must renounce their religion, you must renounce M'Slime and Lucre—their flitches, flannels, and friezes. You must—”
“Beggin' your pardon,” said Darby, “I never received any of their flitches or their flannels. I don't stand in need of them—it's an enlightened independent convart I am.”
“Well, then,” continued the priest, “you must burn their tracts and their treatises, their books and Bibles of every description, and return to your own church.”
“To become acquainted,” replied Darby, “with that piece o' doctrine in your hand there? Faith and I feel the truth o' that as it is, your reverence; and it is yourself that can bring it home to one. But, why, wid submission, don't you imitate Father Roche? By me sowl, I tell you to your face, that so long; as you take your divinity from the saddler's shop, so long you will have obedient men, but indifferent Catholics.”
“What!” replied M'Cabe, in a rage, “do you dare to use such language to my face—a reprobate—a brazen contumacious apostate! I've had this in for you; and now (here he gave him a round half dozen) go off to M'Slime, and Lucre, and Lord———, and when you see them, tell them from me, that if they don't give up perverting my flock, I'll give them enough of their own game.”
Darby's face got pale, with a most deadly expression of rage—an expression, indeed, so very different from that cringing, creeping one which it usually wore, that M'Cabe, on looking at him, felt startled, if not awed, intrepid and exasperated as he was. Darby stood and looked at him coldly, but, at the same time, with unflinching fearlessness in the face.