will rise and sound the terrible sentence of your condemnation at the last awful hour.  Listen to them, then—­listen to them in time, I entreat, I beseech you—­I would go on my bare knees to you to do so.”  Here his tears fell fast, as he proceeded, “I would; and, believe me, I have thought of you and prayed for you, and now you see that I cannot but weep for you, when I know that you have the knowledge—­perhaps the guilt of this heinous crime locked up in your heart, and will not reveal it.  Have compassion, then, on the widow—­enable her friends to restore her child to her longing arms; purge yourself of this great guilt, and you may believe me, that even in a temporal point of view it will be the best rewarded action you ever performed; but this is little—­the darkness that is over your heart will disappear, your conscience will become light, and all its reflections sweet and full of heavenly comfort; your death-bed will be one of peace, and hope, and joy.  Restore, then, the widow’s son, and forbear your deadly revenge against that wretched baronet, and God will restore you to a happiness that the world can neither give nor take away.”

Corbet’s cheek became pale as death itself whilst the good man spoke, but no other symptom of emotion was perceptible; unless, indeed, that his hands, as he unconsciously played with the money, were quite tremulous.

The priest, having concluded, rose to depart, having completely forgotten the principal object of his visit.

“Where are you going?” said Corbet, “won’t you take the money with you?”

“That depends upon your reply,” returned the priest; “and I entreat you to let me have a favorable one.”

“One part of what you wish I will do,” he replied; “the other is out of my power at present.  I am not able to do it yet.”

“I don’t properly understand you,” said the other; “or rather, I don’t understand you at all.  Do you mean what you have just said to be favorable or otherwise?”

“I have come to a resolution,” replied Corbet, “and time will tell whether it’s in your favor or not.  You must be content with this, for more I will not say now; I cannot.  There’s your money, but I’ll take no bill from you.  Your promise is sufficient—­only say you will pay me?”

“I will pay you, if God spares me life.”

“That is enough; unless, indeed “—­again pausing.

“Satisfy yourself,” said the priest; “I will give you either my bill or note of hand.”

“No, no; I tell you.  I am satisfied.  Leave everything to time.”

“That may do very well, but it does not apply to eternity, Anthony.  In the meantime I thank you; for I admit you have taken me out of a very distressing difficulty.  Good-by—­God bless you; and, above all things, don’t forget the words I have spoken to you.”