“An' a respectable way you ax it,” said Dunphy, putting on his spectacles, and looking at him through the bars. “Respect! What, to a beggarly old huckster and kidnapper! Why, you penurious slicer of musty bacon--you iniquitous dealer in light weights--what respect are you entitled to from me? You know who I am--and you must bail me. Otherwise never expect, when the time comes, that I shall recognize you as a base relative, or suffer you to show your ferret face in my presence.” “Ah!” exclaimed the old man, bitterly; “the blood is in you.” “Eight, my old potatomonger; as true as gospel, and a great deal truer. The blood is in me.” “Ay,” replied the other, “the blood of the oppressor--the blood of the villain--the blood of the unjust tyrant is in you, and nothing else. If you had his power, you'd be what he is, and maybe, worse, if the thing was possible. Now, listen; I'll make the words you just said to me the bitterest and blackest to yourself that you ever spoke. That's the last information I have for you; and as I know that you're just where you ought to be, among the companions you are fit for, there I leave you.” He then turned toward the priest, and left Gray to get bail where he might. When Skipton, the messenger, who returned with Dunphy, or Corbet, as we shall in future call him, entered the watch-house, he drew Darby aside, and held some private conversation with him, of which it was evident that Corbet was the subject, from the significant glances which each turned upon him from time to time. In the meantime, the old man, recognizing the priest rather by his voice than his appearance, lost no time in acquainting the officers of justice that they were completely mistaken in the individual. The latter had briefly mentioned to him the circumstance and cause of his arrest. “I want you,” said the priest, “to go to Sir Thomas Gourlay directly, and tell him that I have his money and pistols quite safe, and that I was on my way up to town with them, when this unpleasant mistake took place.” “I will, your reverence,” said he, “without loss of time. I see,” he added, addressing Darby and the others, “that you have made a mistake here.” “What mistake, my good man?” asked Darby. “Why, simply, that instead of a robber, you have been sharp enough to take up a most respectable Catholic clergyman from Ballytrain.” “What,” said Darby, “a Popish priest! Curse me, but that's as good, if not better, than the other thing. No Papist is allowed, under the penalty of a felony, to carry arms, and here is a Popish priest travelling with pistols. The other thing, Skipton, was only for the magistrates, but this is a government affair.” “He may be Finnerty, after all,” replied Skipton, aside; “this old fellow is no authority as to his identity, as you may guess from what I told you.”