“You are Willy Reilly,” said the man who had been spokesman in their interview with the sheriff: “you needn't deny it, sir—I know you!”
“If you know me, then,” replied Reilly, “where is the necessity for asking my name?”
“I ask again, sir, what is your name? If you be the man I suspect you to be, you will deny it.”
“My name,” replied the other, “is William Reilly, and as I am conscious of no crime against society—of no offence against the State—I shall not deny it.”
“I knew I was right,” said the dragoon. “Mr. Reilly, you are our prisoner on many charges, not the least of which is your robbery of the sheriff this night. You must come with us to Sir Robert Whitecraft; so must this other person who seems your companion.”
“Not a foot I'll go to Sir Eobert Whitecraft's to-night,” replied the priest. “I have made my mind up against such a stretch at such an hour as this; and, with the help of God, I'll stick to my resolution.”
“Why do you refuse to go?” asked the man, a good deal surprised at such language.
“Just for a reason I have: as for that fellow being Willy Reilly, he's no more Willy Reilly than I am; whatever he is, however, he's a good man and true, but must be guided by wiser heads than his own; and I now tell him—ay, and you too—that he won't see Sir Robert Whitecraft's treacherous face to-night, no more than myself.”
“Come,” said one of them, “drag the idolatrous old rebel along. Come, my old couple-beggar, there's a noose before you.”
He had scarcely uttered the words when twenty men, armed with strong pikes, jumped out on the road before them, and about the same number, with similar weapons, behind them. In fact, they were completely hemmed in; and, as the road was narrow and the ditches high, they were not at all in a capacity to make resistance.