“With pleasure, dear captain, as becomes my duty, not only as a friend, but as an humble and unworthy minister of religion.  I trust you are not in danger, but, under any circumstances, it is best, you know, to be prepared for the worst.  Do not then be cast down, nor allow your heart to sink into despair.  Remember that you have acted the part of a zealous and faithful champion on behalf of our holy Church, and that you have been a blessed scourge of Popery in this Pope-ridden country.  Let that reflection, then, be your consolation.  Think of the many priests you have hunted—­and hunted successfully too; think of how many bitter Papists of every class you have been the blessed means of committing to the justice of our laws; think of the numbers of Popish priests and bishops you have, in the faithful discharge of your pious duty, committed to chains, imprisonment, transportation, and the scaffold—­think of all these things, I say, and take comfort to your soul by the retrospect.  Would you wish to receive the rites and consolations of religion at my hands?”

“Come near me, Strong,” repeated Smell-priest.  “The rites of religion from you—­the rights of perdition as soon, you hypocritical scoundrel;” and as he spoke he caught a gush of blood as it issued from his mouth and flung it with all the strength he had left right into the clergyman’s face.  “Take that, you villain,” he added; “I die in every sense with my blood upon you.  And as for my hunting of priests and Papists, it is the only thing that lies at this moment heavy over my heart.  And as for that wife of mine, I’m sorry she’s not in my place.  I know, of course, I’ll be damned; but it can’t be helped now.  If I go down, as down I will go, won’t I have plenty of friends to keep me in countenance.  I know—­I feel I’m dying; but I must take the consequences.  In the meantime, my best word and wish is, that that vile jade shan’t be permitted to approach or touch my body after I am dead.  My curse upon you both! for you brought me to this untimely death between you.”

“Why, my dear Smellpriest—­” exclaimed the wife.

“Don’t call me Smellpriest,” he replied, interrupting her; “my name is Norbury.  But it doesn’t matter—­it’s all up with me, and I know it will soon be all down with me; for down, down I’ll go.  Strong, you hypocritical scoundrel, don’t be a persecutor:  look at me on the very brink of perdition for it.  And now the only comfort I have is, that I let the poor Popish bishop off.  I could not shoot him, or at any rate make a prisoner of him, and he engaged in the worship of God.”

“Alas!” whispered Strong, “the poor man is verging on rank Popery—­he is hopeless.”

“But, Tom, dear,” said the wife, “why are you displeased with me, your own faithful partner?  I that was so loving and affectionate to you?  I that urged you on in the path of duty?  I that scoured your arms and regimentals with my own hands—­that mixed you your punch before you went after the black game, as you used to say, and, again, had it ready for you when you returned to precious Mr. Strong and me after a long hunt.  Don’t die in anger with your own Grizzey, as you used to call me, my dear Tom, or, if you do, I feel that I won’t long survive you.”