Mr. Hastings was a man of very few words; but he had an eye the expression of which could not be mistaken—keen, manly, and firm. He sat sipping his wine in silence, but turned from time to time a glance upon the baronet, which was not only a searching one, but seemed to have something of triumph in it.
“What do you say, Hastings?” asked Whitecraft; “can you not praise a loyal subject, man?”
“I say nothing, Sir Robert,” he replied; “but I think occasionally.”
“Well, and what do you think occasionally?”
“Why, that the times may change.”
“Whitecraft,” said Smellpriest, “I work upon higher principles than they say you do. I hunt priests, no doubt of it; but then I have no personal malice against them; I proceed upon the broad and general principle of hatred to Popery: but, at the same time, observe it is not the man but the priest I pursue.”
“And when you hang or transport the priest, what becomes of the man?” asked the baronet, with a diabolical sneer. “As for me, Smellpriest, I make no such distinctions; they are unworthy of you, and I'm sorry to hear you express them. I say, the man.”
“And I say, the priest,” replied the other.
“What do you say, my lord?” asked Mr. Folliard of the peer.
“I don't much care which,” replied his lordship; “man or priest, be it as you can determine; only I say that when you hang the priest, I agree with Whitecraft there, that it is all up with the man, and when you hang the man, it is all up with the priest. By the way, Whitecraft,” he proceeded, “how would you like to swing yourself?”