“He will betray you, then.”
“And let him. I have never violated any law, and even though he should betray me, Fergus, he cannot make me guilty. To the laws, to God, and his own conscience, I leave him. No, Fergus, all sympathy between me and the laws that oppress us is gone. Let them vindicate themselves against thieves and robbers and murderers, with as much vigilance and energy as they do against the harmless forms of religion and the rights of conscience, and the country will soon be free from such licentious pests as the Red Rapparee and his gang.”
“You speak warmly, Mr. Reilly.”
“Yes,” replied Keilly, “I am warm, I am indignant at my degradation. Fergus, Fergus, I never felt that degradation and its consequences so deeply as I do this unhappy night.”'
“Well, will you listen to me?”
“I will strive to do so; but you know not the—you know not—alas! I have no language to express what I feel. Proceed, however,” he added, attempting to calm the tumult that agitated his heart; “what about this plot or plan for putting me out of the country?”
“Well, sir, it's determined on to send you, by the means of the same laws you speak of, out of the country. The red villain is to come in with a charge against you and surrender himself to government as a penitent man, and the person who is to protect him is Sir Robert Whitecraft.”
“It's all time, Fergus,” said Reilly; “I see it at a glance, and understand it a great deal better than you do. They may, however, be disappointed. Fergus, I have a friend—friend—oh, such a friend! and it will go hard with that friend, or I shall hear of their proceedings. In the meantime, what do you intend to do?”
“I scarcely know,” replied the other. “I must lie quiet for a while, at any rate.”
“Do so,” said Reilly; “and listen, Fergus. See Paudeen, the smith, from time to time, and get whatever he knows out of him. His father was a tenant of ours, and he ought to remember our kindness to him and his.”