“It’s a wonder,” said the priest, “that the unfortunate man has not been taken.”

“Hum!” exclaimed the officer; “unfortunate man.  My good fellow, that’s very mild talk when speaking of a robber.  Don’t you know that all robbers deserve the gallows, eh?”

“I know no such thing,” replied the priest.  “Many a man has lived by robbing, in his day, that now lives by catching them; and many a poor fellow, as honest as e’er an individual in this coach—­”

“That’s very shocking language,” observed a thin, prim, red-nosed lady, with a vinegar aspect, who sat erect, and apparently fearless, in the corner of the coach—­“very shocking language, indeed.  Why, my good man, should you form any such wile kimparison?”

“Never mind, ma’am; never mind,” said the officer, whose name was Darby; “let him proceed; from what he is about to say, I sha’n’t be surprised if he justifies robbery—­not a bit—­but will be a good deal, if he don’t.  Go on, my good fellow.”

“Well,” proceeded the priest, “I was going to say, that many a poor wretch, as honest as e’er an individual, man or woman—­”

Here there was, on the part of the lady, an indignant toss of the head, and a glance of supreme scorn leveled at the poor priest; whilst Darby, like a man who had generously undertaken the management of the whole discussion, said, with an air of conscious ability, if not something more, “nevermind him, ma’am; give him tether.”

“As honest,” persisted the priest, “as e’er an individual, man or woman, in this coach—­and maybe, if the truth were known, a good deal honester than some of them.”

“Good,” observed the officer; “I agree with you in that—­right enough there.”

The vinegar lady, now apprehensive that her new ally had scandalously abandoned her interests, here dropped her eyes, and crossed her hands upon her breast, as if she had completely withdrawn herself from the conversation.

“I finds,” said she to herself, in a contemptuous soliloquy, “as how there ain’t no gentleman in this here wehicle.”

“Just pay attention, ma’am,” said the officer—­“just pay attention, that’s all.”

This, however, seemed to have no effect—­at least the lady remained in the same attitude, and made no reply.

“Suppose now,” proceeded the priest, “that an unfortunate father, in times of scarcity and famine, should sit in his miserable cabin, and see about him six or seven of his family, some dying of fever, and others dying from want of food; and suppose that he was driven to despair by reflecting that unless he forced it from the rich who would not out of their abundance prevent his children from starving, he can procure them relief in no other way, and they must die in the agonies of hunger before his face.  Suppose this, and that some wealthy man, without sympathy for his fellow-creatures, regardless of the cries of the poor-heartless, ambitious, and oppressive; and