Ormond had his hand on the lock of the door--it was a bad lock, and opened with difficulty. “There’s gratitude for you! No heart, after all--I mistook him.” Ormond turned back, and firmly standing and firmly speaking, he said, “You did not mistake me formerly, sir; but you mistake me now!--Sneaking!--Is there any man here, sober or drunk,” continued be, impetuously approaching the table, and looking round full in every face,--“is there any man here dares to say so but yourself?--You, _you_, my benefactor, my friend; you have said it--think it you did not--you could not, but say it you may--_You_ may say what you will to Harry Ormond, bound to you as he is--bound hand and foot and heart I--Trample on him as you will--_you_ may. _No heart_! Oblige me, gentlemen, some of you,” cried he, his anger rising and his eyes kindling as he spoke, “some of you gentlemen, if any of you think so, oblige me by saying so. No gratitude, sir!” turning from them, and addressing himself to the old man, who held an untasted glass of claret as he listened--“No gratitude! Have not I?--Try me, try me to the death--you have tried me to the quick of the heart, and I have borne it.” He could bear it no longer: he threw himself into the vacant chair, flung out his arms on the table, and laying his face down upon them, wept aloud. Cornelius O’Shane pushed the wine away. “I’ve wronged the boy grievously,” said he; and forgetting the gout, he rose from his chair, hobbled to him, and leaning over him, “Harry, ‘tis I--look up, my own boy, and say you forgive me, or I’ll never forgive myself. That’s well,” continued he, as Harry looked up and gave him his hand; “that’s well!--you’ve taken the twinge out of my heart worse than the gout: not a drop of gall or malice in your nature, nor ever was, more than in the child unborn. But see, I’ll tell you what you’ll do now, Harry, to settle all things--and lest the fit should take me ever to be mad with you on this score again. You don’t choose to drink more than’s becoming?--Well, you’se right, and I’m wrong. ‘Twould be a burning shame of me to make of you what I have made of myself. We must do only as well as we can. But I will ensure you against the future; and before we take another glass--there’s the priest--and you, Tom Ferrally there, step you for my swearing book. Harry Ormond, you shall take an oath against drinking more glasses than you please evermore, and then you’re safe from me. But stay--you are a heretic. Phoo! what am I saying? ‘twas seeing the priest put that word _heretic_ in my head--you’re not a catholic, I mean. But an oath’s an oath, taken before priest or parson--an oath, taken how you will, will operate. But stay, to make all easy, ‘tis I’ll take it.” “Against drinking, you! King Corny!” said Father Jos, stopping his hand, “and in case of the gout in your stomach?”