“Well, I think I may say so, in one sense. Sure enough, I am Ellen Connor; but, unfortunately, not the Ellen Connor that you wanst knew; neither, unfortunately again, are you the Fergus O'Reilly that I wanst knew. We are both changed, Fergus—I into sorrow, and you into crime.”
“Ellen,” said he, nearly as much agitated as herself, “I stand before you simply as Fergus O'Seilly, but not Fergus the Rapparee.”
“You will not deny your own words to my father,” she replied.
“No, Ellen, I will not—they were true then, but, thank God, they are not true now.”
“How is that, Fergus?”
“Simply because I was a Rapparee when I spoke to your father; but I have left them, once and for ever.”
“How long have you left them?”
“Ever since that night. If it were not for Reilly and those that were out with him duck-shooting, the red villain would have murdered the squire and Andy Cummiskey, as sure as there is life in my body. After all, it is owin' to Mr. Reilly that I left him and his cursed crew. And now, Ellen, that I have met you, let me spake to you about ould times. In the first place, I am heart sorry for the step I took; but you know it was oppression and persecution that drove me to it.”
“Fergus,” she replied, “that's no excuse. Persecution may come upon us, but that's no reason why we should allow it to drive us into evil and crime. Don't you know that it's such conduct that justifies the persecutors in their own eyes and in the eyes of the world. What will become of you now? If you're caught, you must die a shameful death.”
“Devil a fear of it, my darlin' Ellen. I could tell you something, if I thought myself at liberty to do so—something mavourneen, that 'ud give you a light heart.”