“Is that your last detarmination, my Lord?”

“My last respecting that matter,” replied the prelate.

“Then, upon my conscience,” returned Darby, “according to that rule, hell resave the ha’porth of the kind there was to prevent you from bein’ a bishop.  I hear you’re goin’ up to Dublin to be consecrated, and be me sowl, you want it; but I’d take my book oath that all the grace in your church won’t be able to consecrate you into thrue religion.  The back o’ my hand to you, I say; for I hate everything that is ungrateful.”

It often happens that a petty insult, coming from an unexpected source, excites our indignation more than an offence from a higher quarter.  The new made prelate actually got black in the face, and giddy in the head, with the furious fit of passion which seized him on hearing this language from Darby.

In the meantime, we leave him to cool as best he can, and follow Darby to Castle Cumber, where he thought it probable he might meet Father M’Cabe; nor was he mistaken.  He found that very zealous gentleman superintending the erection of a new chapel on a site given to Father Roche by Mr Hartley.  The priest, who knew that the other had recently avoided him, felt considerably surprised at seeing the bailiff approach him of his own free will.

“Well,” said he, in a voice which contained equal parts of irony and anger, “what do you want with me, Mr. Protestant?  Ah, what a blessed Protestant you are! and what a hawl they made when they caught you!  What do you want, you shuffling scoundrel?”

“Troth, the grace o’ God, I fear,” replied Darby, humbly.

“And what brings you to me then?  I mean, sirra, what’s your business now?”

“Why, sir, devil a one o’ me but’s come jack to the ould creed.  Troth, your Reverence, the impressions you made on me the day we had the great argument, was, wondherful.  Be my sowl, it’s yourself that can send home the whi—­word, your Rev-a-ence, in a way that it won’t aisly be forgotten.  How-an-iver, sure hell resave the wie o me, but threwn back his dirty religion to Lucre—­an’ left him an’ it—­although he offered, if I’d remain wid them, to put Johnny Short out, and make me full gaoler.  My Lord,’ says I, ‘thruth’s best.  I’ve heard both sides o’ the argument from you and Father M’Cabe; an’ be me sowl, if you were a bishop ten times over, you couldn’t hould a candle to him at arguin’ Scripture; neither are you the mild and forgiving Christian that he is.  Sure I know your church well,’ says I up to him.  ’It’s a fat church, no doubt; an’ I’ll tell you what’s in it.’”

“‘What’s that, you backslidin’ vagabone?’” says he.

“‘Why, then, plenty of mait,’ says I, ‘but no salvation;’ an’ salvation to me, your Reverence, but he got black over the whole face and shullers wid rank passion.  But sure—­would your Reverence come a little more this way; I think the men’s listenin’ to us—­but sure,” continued Darby, in a low, wheedling, confidential, and friendly voice, “sure, sir, he wanted me to prosecute you for the religious instruction—­for trath it was nothing else, glory be to God—­that you gave me the day of the argument; an’—–­now listen, your Reverence—­he offered me a bribe if I’d do it.”