“Mylord, fly, and save yourself!  Captain Smellpriest and his gang are upon us.”

The bishop never once turned round, nor seemed to hear them; but Reilly did, and saw that the whole congregation had fled, and that there only remained the bishop and himself.

“Our day of doom,” said he to himself, “is come.  Nothing now can save us.”

Still the bishop proceeded undisturbed in the worship of the Almighty; when, lo! the military party, headed and led on by the notorious Captain Smellpriest, came thundering up, the captain exclaiming: 

“You idolatrous Papist, stop that mummery—­or you shall have twelve bullets in your heart before half a minute’s time.”

The bishop had consecrated the Host, as we have said, but had not yet had time to receive it.

“Men,” said Smellpriest, “you are all primed and loaded.  Present.”

They accordingly did so; every musket was levelled at him.  The bishop now turned round, and, with the calmness of a martyr—­a calmness and conduct that were sublime—­he said: 

“Sir, I am engaged in the worship of the Eternal God, and if you wish to shed my blood I should rather it were here and now than in any other place.  Give me but a few minutes—­I do not ask more.”

“Oh,” said Smellpriest, “we will give you ten, if you wish it, and the more so because we are sure of you.”

When the bishop turned round again, after having received the Host, his pale face had altogether changed its complexion—­it burned with an expression which it is difficult to describe.  A lofty sense of the sacrifice he was about to make was visible in his kindling and enthusiastic eye; his feeble frame, that had been, dining the ceremony of mass, shivering under the effects of the terrible storm that howled around them, now became firm, and not the slightest mark of fear or terror was visible in his bearing; calmly and undauntedly he turned round, and with a voice full and steady he said: 

“I am willing to die for my religion, but I say to you that the slaughter of an inoffensive man at the foot of God’s altar will not smooth the pillow of your deathbed, nor of those who shoot down a minister of God while in the act of worshipping his Creator, My congregation, poor timid creatures, have fled, but as for me, I will not!  I dare not!  Here, now, I spread out my arms—­fire!”

[Illustration:  PAGE 91—­Here, now, I spread out my arms—­fire!]

“I also,” said Reilly, “will partake of whatever fate may befall the venerable clergyman who is before you,” and he stood up side by side with the bishop.