CHAPTEE XII.—­Sir Robert Meets a Brother Sportsman

—­Draws his Nets, but Catches Nothing.

“’Tis conscience that makes cowards of us all,” said Shakespeare, with that wonderful wisdom which enlightens his glorious pages; and, in fact, Sir Robert Whitecraft, in his own person, fully corroborated the truth of the poet’s apophthegm.  The man, besides, was naturally a coward; and when to this we add the consciousness of his persecutions and cruelties, and his apprehensions from the revenge of Reilly—­the destruction of whose property, without any authority from Government for the act, he felt himself guilty of—­the reader may understand the nature and extent of his terrors on his way home.  The distance between his own house and that of his intended father-in-law was about three miles, and there lay a long space of level road, hedged in, as was then the custom, on both sides, from behind which hedges an excellent aim could be taken.  As Sir Robert proceeded along this lonely path, his horse stumbled against some stones that were in his way, or perhaps that had been purposely placed there.  Be that as it may, the baronet fell, and a small man, of compact size and vigorous frame, was found aiding him to rise.  Having helped him into the saddle, the baronet asked him, with an infirm and alarmed voice, who he was.

“Why, Sir Robert,” he replied, “you must know I am not a Papist, or I wouldn’t be apt to render you any assistance; I am somewhat of your own kidney—­a bit of a priest-hunter, on a small scale.  I used to get them for Captain Smellpriest, but he paid me badly, and as there was great risk among the bloody Papists, I made up my mind to withdraw out of his service; but you are a gentleman, Sir Robert, what Captain Smellpriest is not, and if you want an active and useful enemy to Popery, I am your man.”

“I want such a person, certainly,” replied the baronet, who, in consequence of the badness of the road and the darkness of the night, was obliged to walk his horse with caution.  “By the way,” said he, “did you not hear a noise behind the hedge?”

“I did,” replied the other, “but it was the noise of cattle.”

“I am not aware,” replied Sir Robert, “what the devil cattle can have to do immediately behind the hedge.  I rather think they are some of our own species;” and as he ceased speaking the tremendous braying of a jackass came upon their ears.

“You were right, Sir Robert,” replied his companion; “I beg pardon, I mean that was right; you know now it was cattle.”

“What is your name?” asked Sir Robert.

“Rowland Drum, Sir Robert; and, if you will permit me, I should like to see you safe home.  I need not say that you are hated by the Papists; and as the road is lonesome and dangerous, as a priest-hunter myself I think it an act of duty not to leave you.”

“Thank you,” said Sir Robert, “you are a civil person, and I will accept your escort.”