“Well, but does it go in the Greek against a flitch o’ bacon and a wisp o’ greens, your reverence?  Faith, beggin’ your pardon, if you were to see some o’ the new convarts, how comfortable they are wid their good frieze coats, and their new warm blankets, sittin’ beside their good fires, you’d maybe not blame them so much as you do.  Your religion, sir, only provides for the sowl; but theirs, you see, provides any how for the body—­and faith, I say, the last is a great advantage in these hard times.”

The priest’s astonishment increased at the boldness with which Darby continued the argument, or rather, which prompted him to argue at all.  He looked at him, and gave a smile.

“Well,” said he, almost forgetting his anger—­for he was by no means deficient in a perception of the humorous—­“but no matter—­it will do by and by.  You villain,” said he, forced into the comic spirit of the argument; “do you not know that it said—­cursed is he who becometh an apostate, and eateth the flesh of heretics.”

“Aitin’ the flesh of heretics is forbidden, I dare say, sure enough,” replied Darby; “an’ troth it’s a commandment not likely to be broken—­for dirty morsels they are, God knows; but is there anything said against aitin’ the flesh of their sheep or cows—­or that forbids us to have a touch at a good fat goose, or a turkey, or any harmless little trifle o’ the kind?  Troth myself never thought, sir, that beef or mutton was of any particular religion before.”

“Yes, sir; beef and mutton, when they’re good, are Catholic—­but when they’re lean, why, like a bad Christian, they’re Protestant, of course, and that’s well known,” said the priest, still amused, against his will, by Darby’s arguments.

“Faith, and wid great respect, the same is but a poor argument for your own—­hem—­I mane, sir, for your church; for if the best beef and mutton be of the thrue religion, the Protestants have it all to nothing.  There, they’re infallible, and no mistake.  The fat o’ the land, your reverence,” said Darby, with a wink; “don’t you understand?  They’ve got that any how.”

A slight cut of the whip across the shoulders made him jump and rub himself, whilst the priest, struck with his utter want of principle, exclaimed.

“You double-dealing scoundrel, how dare you wink at me, as if we felt anything in common?”

The blow occasioned Darby’s gorge to rise; for like every other knave, when conscious of his own dishonesty, and its detection, he felt his bad passions overpower him.

“You must,” said the priest, whose anger was now excited by his extraordinary assurance—­“you must renounce their religion, you must renounce M’Slime and Lucre—­their flitches, flannels, and friezes.  You must—­”

“Beggin’ your pardon,” said Darby, “I never received any of their flitches or their flannels.  I don’t stand in need of them—­it’s an enlightened independent convart I am.”

“Well, then,” continued the priest, “you must burn their tracts and their treatises, their books and Bibles of every description, and return to your own church.”