'You speak of yourself as being already a member of the Romish communion. How is this? Have you given up your curacy? Have you told your father? I fancy that if you had done so I must have heard of it ere now. I entreat you to tell me the state of the case, for, heathen as I am, I am still an Englishman; and there are certain old superstitions still lingering among us--whencesoever we may have got them first--about truth and common honesty--you understand me.-- 'Do not be angry. But there is a prejudice against the truthfulness of Romish priests and Romish converts.--It's no affair of mine. I see quite enough Protestant rogues and liars, to prevent my having any pleasure in proving Romanists, or any other persons, rogues and liars also. But I am--if not fond of you--at least sufficiently fond to be anxious for your good name. You used to be an open- hearted fellow enough. Do prove to the world that coelum, non animum mutant, qui trans mare currunt.' CHAPTER IX: HARRY VERNEY HEARS HIS LAST SHOT FIRED The day after the Lavingtons' return, when Lancelot walked up to the Priory with a fluttering heart to inquire after all parties, and see one, he found the squire in a great state of excitement. A large gang of poachers, who had come down from London by rail, had been devastating all the covers round, to stock the London markets by the first of October, and intended, as Tregarva had discovered, to pay Mr. Lavington's preserves a visit that night. They didn't care for country justices, not they. Weren't all their fines paid by highly respectable game-dealers at the West end? They owned three dog-carts among them; a parcel by railway would bring them down bail to any amount; they tossed their money away at the public- houses, like gentlemen; thanks to the Game Laws, their profits ran high, and when they had swept the country pretty clean of game, why, they would just finish off the season by a stray highway robbery or two, and vanish into Babylon and their native night. Such was Harry Verney's information as he strutted about the courtyard waiting for the squire's orders. 'But they've put their nose into a furze-bush, Muster Smith, they have. We've got our posse-commontaturs, fourteen men, sir, as'll play the whole vale to cricket, and whap them; and every one'll fight, for they're half poachers themselves, you see' (and Harry winked and chuckled); 'and they can't abide no interlopers to come down and take the sport out of their mouths.' 'But are you sure they'll come to-night?' 'That 'ere Paul says so. Wonder how he found out--some of his underhand, colloguing, Methodist ways, I'll warrant. I seed him preaching to that 'ere Crawy, three or four times when he ought to have hauled him up. He consorts with them poachers, sir, uncommon. I hope he ben't one himself, that's all.' 'Nonsense, Harry!'