“Sir,” said Father M’Mahon, rising up and traversing the room with considerable heat, “you have been tampering with the confidence I was disposed to place in you.  Whatever dark game you are playing, or have been playing, I know not; but this I can assure you, that Lady Gourlay’s friends know more of your secrets than you suspect.  I believe you to be nothing more nor less than a hardened old villain, whose heart is sordid, and base, and cruel—­corrupted, I fear, beyond all hope of redemption.  You have been playing with me, sir—­sneering at me in your sleeve, during this whole dialogue.  This was a false move, however, on your part, and you will find it so.  I am not a man to be either played with or sneered at by such a snake-like and diabolical old scoundrel as you are.  Listen, now, to me.  You think your secret is safe; you think you are beyond the reach of the law; you think we know nothing of your former movements under the guidance and in personal company with the Black Baronet.  Pray, did you think it impossible that there was above you a God of justice, and of vengeance, too, whose providential disclosures are sufficient to bring your villany to light?  Anthony Corbet, be warned in time.  Let your disclosures be voluntary, and they will be received with gratitude, with deep thanks, with ample rewards; refuse to make them, endeavor still further to veil the crimes to which I allude, and sustain this flagitious compact, and we shall drag them up your throat, and after forcing you to disgorge them, we shall send you, in your wicked and impenitent old age, where the clank of the felon’s chain will be the only music in your ears, and that chain itself the only garter that will ever keep up your Connemaras.  Now begone, and lay to heart what I’ve said to you.  It wasn’t my intention to have let you go without a bit of something to eat, and a glass of something to wash it down afterwards; but you may travel now; nothing stronger than pure air will cross your lips in this house, unless at your own cost.”

The old fellow seemed to hesitate, as if struck by some observation contained in the priest’s lecture.

“When do you lave town, sir?” he asked.

“Whenever it’s my convanience,” replied the other; “that’s none of your affair.  I’ll go immediately and see Skipton.”

The priest observed that honest Anthony looked still graver at the mention of this name.  “If you don’t go,” he added, “until a couple of days hence, I’d like to see you again, about this hour, the day afther tomorrow.”

“Whether I’ll be here, or whether I won’t is more than I know.  I may be brought to judgment before then, and so may you.  You may come then, or you may stay away, just as you like.  If you come, perhaps I’ll see you, and perhaps I won’t.  So now good-by!  Thank goodness we are not depending on you!”

Anthony then slunk out of the room with a good deal of hesitation in his manner, and on leaving the hall-door he paused for a moment, and seemed disposed to return.  At length he decided, and after lingering awhile, took his way toward Constitution Hill.