“You are a heretic at heart,” said the other, knitting his brows; “from your own language you stand confessed—­a heretic.”

“I know not,” replied Reilly, “by what right or authority you adopt this ungentlemanly and illiberal conduct towards me; but so long as your language applies only to myself and my religion, I shall answer you in a different spirit.  In the first place, then, you are grievously mistaken in supposing me to be a heretic.  I am true and faithful to nay creed, and will live and die in it.”

Father Maguire felt relieved, and breathed more freely; a groan was coming, but it ended in a “hem.”

“Before we proceed any farther, sir,” said this strange man, “you must take an oath.”

“For what purpose, sir?” inquired Reilly.

“An oath of secrecy as to the existence of this place of our retreat.  There are at present here some of the—­” he checked himself, as if afraid to proceed farther.  “In fact, every man who is admitted amongst us must take the oath.”

Reilly looked at him with indignation.  “Surely,” thought he to himself, “this man must be mad; his looks are wild, and the fire of insanity is in his eyes; if not, he is nothing less than an incarnation of ecclesiastical bigotry and folly.  The man must be mad, or worse.”  At length he addressed him.

“You doubt my integrity and my honor, then,” he replied haughtily.

“We doubt every man until he is bound by his oath.”

“You must continue to doubt me, then,” replied Reilly; “for, most assuredly, I will not take it.”

“You must take it, sir,” said the other, “or you never leave the cavern which covers you,” and his eyes once more blazed as he uttered the words.

“Gentlemen,” said Reiliy, “there appear to be fifteen or sixteen of you present:  may I be permitted to ask why you suffer this unhappy man to be at large?”

“Will you take the oath, sir?” persisted the insane bishop in a voice of thunder—­“heretic and devil, will you take the oath?”

“Unquestionably not.  I will never take any oath that would imply want of honor in myself.  Cease, then, to trouble me with it.  I shall not take it.”

This last reply affected the bishop’s reason so deeply that he looked about him strangely, and exclaimed, “We are lost and betrayed.  But here are angels—­I see them, and will join in their blessed society,” and as he spoke, he rushed towards the stalactites in a manner somewhat wild and violent, so much so, indeed, that from an apprehension of his receiving injury in some of the dark interstices among them, they found it necessary, for his sake, to grapple with him for a few moments.

But, alas! they had very little indeed to grapple with.  The man was but a shadow, and they found him in their hands as feeble as a child.  He made no resistance, but suffered himself to be managed precisely as they wished.  Two of the persons present took charge of him, one sitting on each side of him.  Reilly, who looked on with amazement, now strongly blended with pity—­for the malady of the unhappy ecclesiastic could no longer be mistaken—­Reilly, we say, was addressed by an intelligent-looking individual, with some portion of the clerical costume about him.