“Where is it?”
“In this book—this is the Word of God, that preacheth peace and salvation to all.”
“Has Val M'Clutchy this book?”
“Of course he has—it is not to be supposed that so able and staunch a friend of Protestantism, of the religion of the state, could be without this book, or ignorant of it.”
Raymond put it tip to his nose, and after seeming to smell it, said, with a strong shudder, “how did you do this among you? How did you do it?—look at it—see, see, it's dripping wid blood—here's murder on this page, there's starvation on that—there's the blood-hounds huntin'—look, sir, look at the poor creature almost worn down, makin' his way to hide, but he can't; they have him, they have him—see how they drag him, as if he was, a—ay, drag, drag, he's yours now, he's yours—whip and scourge, whip and scourge—more blood, more blood—and this is it, this—don't you see it, sir, comin' down in drops when I hould it up that way!”
“My good friend, you are certainly in liquor—your language is that of a man strongly affected by drink.”
“And this is it,” Raymond proceeded; “look at this page, that's not the one the blood is on; no, no, there's nothing here but madness. Ah!” said he, lowering his voice to a tone of deep compassion, “sure she's mad; they killed Hugh O'Began, and they killed the two sons, and then she went mad.—So, you see, there it is now—on that page there's blood, and, on this one,—with the big letter on it, there's madness. Then agin comes the Turnin' out. How would you like to walk three long, dreary miles, in sleet, and frost, and snow, havin' no house to go to—wid thin breeches to your bottom, an' maybe a hole in them—widout shoe or stockin' on your hooves—wid a couple of shiverin', half starved, sick childre, tied by an ould praskeen to your back, an' you sinkin' wid hunger all the time?—ay, and the tail o' your old coat blown up behind every minute, like a sparrow before the wind!—Eh, how would you like it?”
Lucre still stuck to the hypothesis of liquor, and accordingly went and rang the porter's bell, who immediately appeared.
“John,” said his master, “I desire you will immediately show this man out—he is so scandalously affected with liquor, that he knows not the purport of his own language.”
John approached his master with a face of awful tenor:—“for God's sake, sir,” said he, “don't say a word that might cross him, sure he's the great madman, Raymond-na-hattha. Just sit still, and let him take his own way, and he'll do no harm in life; appear to listen to him, and he'll be like a child—but, if you go to harshness, he'd tear you, and me, and all that's in the house, into minced meat.”