“To become acquainted,” replied Darby, “with that piece o’ doctrine in your hand there?  Faith and I feel the truth o’ that as it is, your reverence; and it is yourself that can bring it home to one.  But, why, wid submission, don’t you imitate Father Roche?  By me sowl, I tell you to your face, that so long; as you take your divinity from the saddler’s shop, so long you will have obedient men, but indifferent Catholics.”

“What!” replied M’Cabe, in a rage, “do you dare to use such language to my face—­a reprobate—­a brazen contumacious apostate!  I’ve had this in for you; and now (here he gave him a round half dozen) go off to M’Slime, and Lucre, and Lord------, and when you see them, tell them from me, that if they don’t give up perverting my flock, I’ll give them enough of their own game.”

Darby’s face got pale, with a most deadly expression of rage—­an expression, indeed, so very different from that cringing, creeping one which it usually wore, that M’Cabe, on looking at him, felt startled, if not awed, intrepid and exasperated as he was.  Darby stood and looked at him coldly, but, at the same time, with unflinching fearlessness in the face.

“You have done it,” he said, “and I knew you would.  Now, listen to me—­are you not as aiger to make convarts as either M’Slime or Lucre?”

“You will have it again, you scoundrel,” said the curate, approaching him with uplifted whip.

“Stand back,” said Darby, “I’ve jist got all I wanted—­stand back, or by all the vestments ever you wore, if your whip only touches my body, as light as if it wouldn’t bend a feather, I’ll have you in heaven, or purgatory, before you can cry ‘God forgive me.’”

The other still advanced, and was about to let the whip fall, when Darby stretched his right hand before him, holding a cocked and loaded pistol presented to the curate’s breast.

“Now,” said he, “let your whip fall if you like; but if you do, I’ll lodge this bullet,” touching the pistol with his left forefinger, “in your heart, and your last mass is said.  You blame Lucre and M’Slime for making convarts; but ai’en’t you every bit as anxious to bring over the Protestants as they are to bring over us?  Aren’t you paradin’ them Sunday af’ther Sunday, and boastin’ that you are takin’ more from the heretics than they are takin’ from you?  Wasn’t your last convart Bob Beatty, that you brought over because he had the fallin’ sickness, and you left it upon him never to enter a church door, or taste bacon; and now you have him that was a rank Orangeman and a blood-hound six weeks ago, a sound Catholic to-day?  Why, your reverence, with regard to convart makin’ divil the laist taste o’ differ I see between you on either side, only that they are able to give betther value in this world for the change than you are—­that’s all.  You’re surprised at seeing my pistols, but of late I don’t go any where unprovided; for, to tell you the thruth, either as a bailiff or a convart, it’s not likely I’d be safe widout them; and I think that yourself are a very good proof of it.”