His companion made no reply, and they walked on for some time in silence.  Such indeed was the precarious state of the country then that, although the stranger, from the opening words of their conversation, suspected his companion to be no other than Willy Reilly himself, yet he hesitated to avow the suspicions he entertained of his identity, although he felt anxious to repose the fullest confidence in him; and Reilly, on the other hand, though perfectly aware of the true character of his companion, was influenced in their conversation by a similar feeling.  Distrust it could not be termed on either side, but simply the operation of that general caution which was generated by the state of the times, when it was extremely difficult to know the individual on whom you could place dependence.  Reilly’s generous nature, however, could bear this miserable manoeuvring no longer.

“Come, my friend,” said he, “we have been beating about the bush with each other to no purpose; although I know not your name, yet I think I do your profession.”

“And I would hold a wager,” replied other, “that Mr. Reilly, whose house was burned down by a villain this night, is not a thousand miles from me.”

“And suppose you are right?”

“Then, upon my veracity, you’re safe, if I am.  It would ill become my cloth and character to act dishonorably or contrary to the spirit of my religion.

     ‘Non ignara mali miseris succurrere disco.’

You see, Mr. Reilly, I couldn’t make use of any other gender but the feminine without violating prosody; for although I’m not so sharp at my Latin as I was, still I couldn’t use ignarus, as you see, without fairly committing myself as a scholar; and indeed, if I went to that, it would surely be the first time I have been mistaken for a dunce.”

The honest priest, now that the ice was broken, and conscious that he was in safe hands, fell at once into his easy and natural manner, and rattled away very much to the amusement of his companion.  “Ah!” he proceeded, “many a character I have been forced to assume.”

“How is that?” inquired Reilly.  “How did it happen that you were forced into such a variety of characters?”

“Why, you see, Mr. Reilly—­troth and maybe I had better not be naming you aloud; walls have ears, and so may hedges.  How, you ask?  Why, you see, I’m not registered, and consequently have no permission from government to exercise my functions.”

“Why,” said Reilly, “you labor under a mistake, my friend; the bill for registering Catholic priests did not pass; it was lost by a majority of two.  So far make your mind easy.  The consequence is, that if you labor under no ecclesiastical censure you may exercise all the functions of your office—­that is, as well as you can, and as far as you dare.”

“Well, that same’s a comfort,” said the priest; “but the report was, and is, that we are to be registered.  However, be that as it may, I have been a perfect Proteus.  The metamorphoses of Ovid were nothing to mine.  I have represented every character in society at large; to-day I’ve been a farmer, and to-morrow a poor man (a mendicant), sometimes a fool—­a rare character, you know, in this world—­and sometimes a tiddler, for I play a little.”