Confessions Of Con Cregan, the Irish Gil BlasLever, Charles
General
Confessions Of Con Cregan, the Irish Gil Blas
Lever, Charles
Ireland -- Fiction
The friar ceased his efforts, and, calling the Mexican to one side,
whispered something in a low, cautious manner. The other seemed to
demur and hesitate, but, after a brief space, appeared to yield; when,
replacing the poles beside the wagon, he turned the horses' heads
towards the road by which they had just come.
"We are about to try a ford some miles farther up the stream," said the
Padre, "and so we commend you to the Virgin, and wish you a prosperous
journey."
"All roads are alike to me, holy Father," said I, with a coolness that
cost me something to assume.
"Then take the shortest, and you'll be soonest at your journey's end,"
said he, gruffly.
"Who can say that?" rejoined I; "it's no difficult matter to lose one's
way in a dense forest, where the tracks are unknown."
"There is but one path, and it cannot be mistaken," said he, in the same
tone.
"It has one great disadvantage, Father," said I.
"What is that?"
"There is no companionship on it; and, to say truth, I have too much of
the Irishman in me to leave good company for the pleasure of travelling
all alone."
"Methinks you have very little of the Irishman about you, in another
respect," said he, with a sneer of no doubtful meaning.
"How so?" said I, eagerly.
"In volunteering your society when it is not sought for, young
gentleman," said he, with a look of steadfast effrontery,--"at least,
I can say, such were not the habits of the land as I remember it some
forty years ago."
"Ah, holy Father, it has grown out of many a barbarous custom since your
time: the people have given up drinking and faction-fighting, and you
may travel fifty miles a day for a week together and never meet with a
friar."
"Peace be with you!" said he, waving his hand, but with a gesture it was
easy to see boded more passion than patience.
I hesitated for a second what to do; and at last, feeling that another
word might perhaps endanger the victory I had won, I dashed spurs into
the mare's flanks, and, with the shout the ostler had recommended,
rushed her at the stream. Over she went, "like a bird," lighting on the
opposite bank with her hind-legs "well up," and the next moment plunged
into the forest.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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