“We are sworn,” said John; “the blood of him who has dishonored our sister's name we will shed, and it is neither priest nor parent who will or shall prevent us.”
“Is not a rash and unlawful oath a crime?” said Father Roche: “yes, and you know it is better broken than kept. I call upon you now, as your spiritual guide, to renounce that blasphemous oath of blood, and in the name of the Almighty and all powerful God, I command you to do it.”
“We deny your right to interfere,” replied John, “we are not now at confession—keep within your limits; for as sure as there is death and Judgment, so sure as we will fulfil our oath in avenging the disgrace of our sister. That ends all, and we will speak no more.”
The good old man began to fear that he should be put to the most painful necessity of lodging informations before a magistrate, and thus become the means of bringing' disgrace and evil upon the family when it occurred to him to ask them a last question.
“My dear young men,” said he, “I have forgotten, in the agitation of mind occasioned by the unprecedented disclosure of your evil and wilful intentions, to ask, if you so far renounce God as to refuse to worship him. Kneel down, and let us pray.” He himself and their father knelt, but the three brothers stood as sullen and immovable as before. Tho priest uttered a short prayer, but their conduct so completely perplexed and shocked him, that he rose up, and with tears in his eyes, exclaimed—
“I am now an old man, and have witnessed many instances of error, and sin, and deep crime, but never before have I seen in persons of your early years, such instances—such awful, terrible instances—of that impenitence in which the heart, setting aside God and his sacred ordinances, is given over to the hardness of final reprobation. I can do no more, as the ambassador of Christ, but I must not stand by and see a fellow-creature—oh! thank God,” he exclaimed, “a thought recurs to my mind which had for a time passed out of it. My good friend,” he said, addressing old M'Loughlin, “will you bring Mary in, if she is able to come—say I request to see her here.”
“We will go now,” said the eldest, “you can want us no longer.”
“You shall not go,” replied Father Roche firmly, “if you are men, stay—or, if cowards, who are afraid to look into the depths of your own dark designs, you will and may go—we want you not.” This language perplexed them, but they stood as before, and moved not.
In a few minutes Mary came in, leaning on her father's arm; but, ah! what a change from the elegant outline and clear, healthy cheek—from the red plump lips, and dark mellow eyes, which carried fascination in every glance and grace in every motion! Sweet, and beautiful, and interesting, she still unquestionably was, but her pale cheek, languid eye, and low tremulous voice, told a tale, which, when the cause of it was reflected on, had literally scorched up out of her brother's hearts every remaining vestige of humanity.
“Mary,” said the priest, we have requested your presence, my child, for a most important purpose—and, in communicating that purpose to you, we indeed give the strongest proof of our confidence in your firmness and good sense—nay, I will add, in the truth and fervor of your dependence on the sustaining power of religion.”