—Reilly's Adventure Continued—Reilly Gets a Bed in a Curious Establishment.
We now beg our readers to accompany us to the library of Sir Robert Whitecraft, where that worthy1 gentleman sits, with a bottle of Madeira before him; for Sir Robert, in addition to his many other good qualities, possessed2 that of being a private drinker. The bottle, we say, was before him, and with a smile of triumph and satisfaction on his face, he arose and rang the bell. In a few minutes a liveried servant attended it.
“Carson, send O'Donnel here.”
Carson bowed and retired3, and in a few minutes the Red Rapparee entered.
“How is this, O'Donnel? Have you thrown aside your uniform?”
“I didn't think I'd be called out on duty again to-night, sir.”
“It doesn't matter, O'Donnel—it doesn't matter. What do you think of the bonfire?”
“Begad, it was a beauty, sir, and well managed.”
“Ay, but I am afraid, O'Donnel, I went a little too far—that I stretched my authority somewhat.”
“But isn't he a rebel and an outlaw4, Sir Robert? and in that case—”
“Yes, O'Donnel; and a rebel and an outlaw of my own making, which is the best of it. The fellow might have lain there, concocting5 his treason, long enough, only for my vigilance. However, it's all right. The government, to which I have rendered such important services, will stand by me, and fetch me out of the burning—that is, if there has been any transgression6 of the law in it. The Papists are privately7 recruiting for the French service, and that is felony; Reilly also was recruiting for the French service—was he not?”
“He offered me a commission, sir.”
“Very good; that's all right, but can you prove that?”
“Why, I can swear it, Sir Robert.”
“Better still. But do you think he is in the country, O'Donnel?”
“I would rather swear he is, sir, than that he is not. He won't lave her aisily.”
“Who do you mean by her, sir?”
“I would rather not name her, your honor, in connection with the vagabond.”
“That's delicate of you, O'Donnel; I highly approve of your sentiment. Here, have a glass of wine.”
“Thank you, Sir Robert; but have you any brandy, sir? My tongue is as dry as a stick, wid that glorious bonfire we had; but, besides, sir, I wish to drink success to you in all your undertakings9. A happy marriage, sir!” and he accompanied the words with a ferocious10 grin.
“You shall have one glass of brandy, O'Donnel, but no more. I wish you to deliver a letter for me to-night. It is to the sheriff, who dines with Lord ———, a friend of mine; and I wish you to deliver it at his lordship's house, where you will be sure to find him. The letter is of the greatest importance, and you will take care to deliver it safely. No answer by you is required. He was out to-day, levying11 fines from Popish priests, and a heavy one from the Popish bishop12, and I do not think, with a large sum of money about him, that he will go home to-night. Here is the letter. I expect he will call on me in the morning, to breakfast—at least I have asked him, for we have very serious business to discuss.”
The Rapparee took the letter, finished his glass of brandy, and disappeared to fulfil his commission.
Now it so happened that on that very evening, before the premises13 had been set on fire, Mary Mahon, by O'Donnel's order, had entered the house, and under, as it were, the protection of the military, gathered up as much of Reilly's clothes and linen14 as she could conveniently carry to her cottage, which was in the immediate15 vicinity of Whitecraft's residence—it being the interest of this hypocritical voluptuary to have the corrupt16 wretch17 near him. The Rapparee, having left Whitecraft to his reflections, immediately directed his steps to her house, and, with her connivance18, changed the dress he had on for one which she had taken from Reilly's wardrobe. He then went to the house of the nobleman where the sheriff was dining, but arrived only in time to hear that he was about to take horse on his return home. On seeing him preparing to mount, bearing a lantern in his hand, as the night was dark and the roads bad, he instantly changed his purpose as to the letter, and came to the resolution of not delivering it at all.
“I can easily say,” thought he, “that the sheriff had gone home before I came, and that will be a very sufficient excuse. In the meantime,” he added, “I will cross the country and be out on the road before him.”
The sheriff was not unarmed, however, and felt himself tolerably well prepared for any attack that might be made on him; and, besides, he was no coward. After a ride of about two miles he found himself stopped, and almost at the same instant the lantern that he carried was knocked out of his hand and extinguished, but not until he caught a faint glimpse of the robber's person, who, from his dress, appeared to be a man much above the common class. Quick as lightning he pulled out one of his pistols, and, cocking it, held himself in readiness. The night was dark, and this preparation for self-defence was unknown to his assailant. On feeling the reins19 of his horse's bridle20 in the hands of the robber, he snapped the pistol at his head, but alas21! it only flashed in the pan. The robber, on the other hand, did not seem anxious to take his life, for it was a principle among the Rapparees to shed, while exercising their rapacious22 functions, as little blood as possible. They have frequently taken life from a feeling of private vengeance23, but not often while robbing on the king's highway. The sheriff, now finding that one pistol had missed, was about to draw out the second, when he was knocked insensible off his horse, and on recovering found himself minus the fines which he had that day levied—all the private cash about him—and his case of pistols. This indeed was a bitter incident to him; because, in addition to the loss of his private purse and firearms—which he valued as nothing—he knew that he was responsible to government for the amount of the fines.
With considerable difficulty he was able to remount his horse, and with a sense of stupor24, which was very painful, he recommenced his journey home. After a ride of about two miles he met three horsemen, who immediately challenged him and demanded his name and residence.
“I am the sheriff of the county,” he replied, “and have been robbed of a large sum of money and my pistols; and now,” he added, “may I beg to know who you are, and by what authority you demand my name and residence?”
“Excuse us, Mr. Sheriff,” they replied; “we belong to the military detachment which government has placed under the control of Sir Robert Whitecraft.”
“Oh, indeed,” exclaimed the sheriff; “I wish to heaven you had been a little more advanced on your journey; you might have saved me from being plundered25, as I have been, and probably secured the robber.”
“Could you observe, sir, what was the villain26's appearance?”
“I had a small lantern,” replied the functionary27, “by which I caught a brief but uncertain glance of him. I am not quite certain that I could recognize his features, though, if I saw him again—but—perhaps I might, certainly I could his dress.”
“How was he dressed, sir?” they inquired.
“Quite beyond the common,” said the sheriff; “I think he had on a brown coat, of superior cloth and make, and I think, too, the buckles28 of his slices were silver.”
“And his features, Mr. Sheriff?”
“I cannot exactly say,” he returned; “I was too much agitated29 to be able to recollect30 them; but indeed the dim glimpse I got was too brief to afford me an opportunity of seeing them with any thing like distinctness.”
“From the description you have given, sir,” said one of them, “the man who robbed you must have been Reilly the Outlaw. That is the very dress he has been in the habit of wearing. Was he tall, sir, and stout31 in person?”
“He was a very large man, certainly,” replied the sheriff; “and I regret I did not see his face more distinctly.”
“It can be no other, Mr. Sheriff,” observed the man; “the fellow has no means of living now, unless by levying contributions on the road. For my part, I think the scoundrel can make himself invisible; but it must go hard with us or we will secure him yet. Would you wish an escort home, Mr. Sheriff? because, if you do, we shall accompany you.”
“No,” replied the other, “I thank you. I would not have ventured home unattended if the Red Rapparee had still been at his vocation32, and his gang undispersed; but as he is now on the safe side, I apprehend34 no danger.”
“It's not at all impossible but Reilly may step into his shoes,” said the cavalryman36.
“I have now neither money nor arms,” continued the sheriff; “nothing the villain robbers could covet37, and what, then, have I to fear?”
“You have a life, sir,” observed the man respectfully, “and if you'll allow me to say it—the life of a man who is not very well liked in the country, in consequence of certain duties you are obliged to perform. Come, then, sir, we shall see you home.”
It was so arranged, and the sheriff reached his own residence, under their escort, with perfect safety.
This indeed was a night of adventure to Reilly—hunted, as he was, like a beast of prey38. After what had taken place already in the early portion of it, he apprehended39 no further pursuit, and in this respect he felt his mind comparatively at ease—for, in addition to any other conviction of his safety, he knew that the night was far advanced, and as the country was unsettled, he was not ignorant that the small military parties that were in the habit of scouring40 the country generally—unless when in the execution of some express duty—retired to their quarters at an early hour, in order to avoid the severe retaliations which were frequently made upon them by the infuriated peasantry whom they—or rather the government which employed them—had almost driven to madness, and—would have driven to insurrection had the people possessed the means of rising. As it was, however, he dreaded41 no further pursuit this night, for the reasons which we have stated.
In the meantime the sheriff, feeling obliged by the civility of the three dragoons, gave them refreshments42 on a very liberal scale, of which—rather exhausted43 as they were—they made a very liberal use. Feeling themselves now considerably44 stimulated45 by liquor, they mounted their horses and proceeded towards their barracks—at a quick pace. In consequence of the locality in which the sheriff lived, it was necessary that they should travel in a direction opposite to that by which Reilly and the priest were going. At all events, after riding a couple of miles, they overtook three infantry46 soldiers who were also on their way to quarters. The blood, however, of the troopers was up—thanks to the sheriff; they mentioned the robbery, and requested the three infantry to precede them as an advanced guard, as quietly as possible, stating that there might still be a chance of coming across the villain who had plundered the sheriff, intimating their impression, at the same time, that Reilly was the man, and adding that if they could secure him their fortune was made. As has always been usual in executing cases, of the law attended with peculiar47 difficulty, these men—the infantry—like our present detectives, had gone out that night in colored clothes. On perceiving two individuals approaching them in the dim distance, they immediately threw their guns into the ditch, lest they should put our friends upon their guard and cause them to escape if they could. Reilly could have readily done so; but having, only a few minutes before heard from the poor old priest that he had, for some months past, been branded and pursued us a felon8, he could not think of abandoning him now that he was feeble and jaded48 with fatigue49 as well as with age. Now it so happened that one of these fellows had been a Roman Catholic, and having committed some breach50 of the law, found it as safe as it was convenient to change his creed51, and as he spoke52 the Irish language fluently—indeed there were scarcely any other then spoken by the peasantry—he commenced clipping his hands on seeing the two men, and expressing the deepest sorrow for the loss of his wife, from whose funeral, it appeared from his lamentations, he was then returning.
“We have nothing to apprehend, here,” said Reilly; “this poor fellow is in sorrow, it seems—God help him! Let us proceed.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the treacherous53 villain, clapping his hands—[we translate his words]—“Oh, Yeeah. Yeeah! (God, God!) what a bitther loss you'll be, my darlin' Madge, to me and your orphan54 childher, now and for evermore! Oh, where was there sich a wife, neighbors? who ever heard her harsh word, or her loud voice? And from mornin' till night ever, ever busy in keepin' every thing tight and clane and regular! Let me alone, will yez? I'll go back and sleep upon her grave this night—so I will; and if all the blasted sogers in Ireland—may sweet bad luck to them!—were to come to prevent me, I'd not allow them. Oh, Madge, darlin', but I'm the lonely and heartbroken man widout you this night!”
“Come, come,” said the priest, “have firmness, poor man; other people have these calamities55 to bear as well as yourself. Be a man.”
“Oh, are you a priest, sir? bekase if you are I want consolation56 if ever a sorrowful man did.”
“I am a priest,” replied the unsuspecting I man, “and any thing I can do to calm your mind, I'll do it.”
He had scarcely uttered these words when! Reilly felt his two arms strongly pinioned57, and as the men who had seized him were | powerful, the struggle between him and them was dreadful. The poor priest at the same moment found himself also a prisoner in the hands of the bereaved58 widower59, to whom he proved an easy victim, as he was incapable60 of making resistance, which, indeed, he declined to attempt. If he did not possess bodily strength, however, he was not without presence of mind. For whilst Reilly and his captors were engaged in a fierce and powerful conflict, he placed his fore-finger and thumb in his mouth, from which proceeded a whistle so piercingly loud and shrill61 that it awoke the midnight echoes around them.
Page 65-- Dashed up to the Scene of Struggle
This was considered by the dragoons as a signal from their friends in advance, and, without the loss of a moment, they set spurs to their horses, and dashed up to the scene of struggle, just as Reilly had got his right arm extricated62, and knocked one of his captors down. In an instant, however, the three dragoons, aided by the other men, were upon him, and not less than three cavalry35 pistols were levelled at his head. Unfortunately, at this moment the moon began to rise, and the dragoons, on looking at him more closely, observed that he was dressed precisely63 as the sheriff had described the person who robbed him—the brown coat, light-colored breeches, and silver buckles—for indeed this was his usual dress.
“You are Willy Reilly,” said the man who had been spokesman in their interview with the sheriff: “you needn't deny it, sir—I know you!”
“If you know me, then,” replied Reilly, “where is the necessity for asking my name?”
“I ask again, sir, what is your name? If you be the man I suspect you to be, you will deny it.”
“My name,” replied the other, “is William Reilly, and as I am conscious of no crime against society—of no offence against the State—I shall not deny it.”
“I knew I was right,” said the dragoon. “Mr. Reilly, you are our prisoner on many charges, not the least of which is your robbery of the sheriff this night. You must come with us to Sir Robert Whitecraft; so must this other person who seems your companion.”
“Not a foot I'll go to Sir Eobert Whitecraft's to-night,” replied the priest. “I have made my mind up against such a stretch at such an hour as this; and, with the help of God, I'll stick to my resolution.”
“Why do you refuse to go?” asked the man, a good deal surprised at such language.
“Just for a reason I have: as for that fellow being Willy Reilly, he's no more Willy Reilly than I am; whatever he is, however, he's a good man and true, but must be guided by wiser heads than his own; and I now tell him—ay, and you too—that he won't see Sir Robert Whitecraft's treacherous face to-night, no more than myself.”
“Come,” said one of them, “drag the idolatrous old rebel along. Come, my old couple-beggar, there's a noose64 before you.”
He had scarcely uttered the words when twenty men, armed with strong pikes, jumped out on the road before them, and about the same number, with similar weapons, behind them. In fact, they were completely hemmed65 in; and, as the road was narrow and the ditches high, they were not at all in a capacity to make resistance.
“Surrender your prisoners,” said a huge man in a voice of thunder—“surrender your prisoners—here are we ten to one against you; or if you don't, I swear there won't be a living man amongst you in two minutes' time. Mark us well—we are every man of us armed—and I will not ask you a second time.”
As to numbers and weapons the man spoke truth, and the military party saw at once that their prisoners must be given up.
“Let us have full revenge on them now, boys,” exclaimed several voices; “down with the tyrannical villains66 that are parse-cuting and murdherin' the country out of a face. This night closes their black work;” and as the words were uttered, the military felt themselves environed and pressed in upon by upwards67 of five-and-twenty sharp and bristling68 pikes.
“It is true, you may murder us,” replied the dragoon; “but we are soldiers, and to die is a soldier's duty. Stand back,” said he, “for, by all that's sacred, if you approach another step, William Reilly and that rebel priest will fall dead at your feet. We may die then; but we will sell our lives dearly. Cover the priest, Robinson.”
Page 65a-- I Entreat69 You, to Show These Men Mercy Now
“Boys,” said the priest, addressing the insurgent70 party, “hold back, for God's sake, and for mine. Remember that these men are only doing their duty, and that whoever is to be blamed, it is not they—no, but the wicked men and cruel laws that set them upon us. Why, now, if these; men, out of compassion71 and a feeling of kindness to poor persecuted72 creatures, as we are, took it into their heads or their hearts to let that man and me off, they would have been, probably, treated like dogs for neglecting their duty. I am, as you know, a minister of God, and a man of peace, whose duty it is to prevent bloodshed whenever I can, and save human life, whether it is that of a Catholic or a Protestant. Recollect, my friends, that you will, every one of you, have to stand before the judgment73 throne of God to seek for mercy and salvation74. As you hope for that mercy, then, at the moment of your utmost need, I implore75, I entreat you, to show these men mercy now, and allow them to go their way in safety.”
“I agree with every word the priest has said,” added Reilly; “not from any apprehension76 of the threat held out against myself, but from, I trust, a higher principle. Here are only six men, who, as his Reverence77 justly said, are, after all, only in the discharge of their public duty. On the other hand, there are at least forty or fifty of you against them. Now I appeal to yourselves, whether it would be a manly78, or generous, or Christian79 act, to slaughter80 so poor a handful of men by the force of numbers. No: there would be neither credit nor honor in such an act. I assure you, my friends, it would disgrace your common name, your common credit, and your common country. Nay81, it would seem like cowardice82, and only give a handle to your enemies to tax you with it. But I know you are not cowards, but brave and generous men, whose hearts and spirits are above a mean action. If you were cowardly butchers, I know we might speak to you in vain; but we know you are incapable of imbruing your hands, and steeping your souls, in the guilt83 of unresisting blood—for so I may term it—where there are so few against so many. My friends, go home, then, in the name of God, and, as this reverend gentleman said, allow these men to pass their way 'without injury.'”
“But who are you?” said their huge leader, in his terrible voice, “who presumes to lecture us?”
“I am one,” replied Reilly, “who has suffered more deeply, probably, than any man here. I am without house or home, proscribed84 by the vengeance of a villain—a villain who has left me without a shelter for my head—who, this night, has reduced my habitation, and all that appertained to it, to a heap of ashes—who is on my trail, night and day, and who will be on my trail, in order to glut85 his vengeance with my blood. Now, my friends, listen—I take God to witness, that if that man were here at this moment, I would plead for his life with as much earnestness as I do for those of the men who are here at your mercy. I feel that it would be cowardly and inhuman86 to take it under such circumstances; yes, and unworthy of the name of William Reilly. Now,” he added, “these men will pass safely to their quarters.”
As they were about to resume their journey, the person who seemed to have the command of the military said:
“Mr. Reilly, one word with you: I feel that you have saved our lives; I may requite87 you for that, generous act yet;” and he pressed his hand warmly as he spoke, after which they proceeded on their way.
That the person of Reilly was not recognized by any of these men is accounted for by a well-known custom, peculiar to such meetings, both then and now. The individuals before and around him were all strangers, from distant parts of the country; for whenever an outrage88 is to be committed, or a nocturnal drilling to take place, the peasantry start across the country, in twos and threes, until they quietly reach some lonely and remote spot, where their persons are not known.
No sooner had he mentioned his name, however, than there arose a peculiar murmur89 among the insurgents—such a murmur indeed as it was difficult to understand; there was also a rapid consultation90 in Irish, which was closed by a general determination to restrain their vengeance for that night, at least, and for the sake of the celebrated91 young martyr—for as such they looked upon him—to allow the military to pass on without injury. Reilly then addressed them in Irish, and thanked them, both in his own name and that of the priest, for the respect evinced by, their observation of the advice they had given them. The priest also addressed them in Irish, aware, as he was, that one sentence in that language, especially from a person in a superior rank of life, carries more weight than a whole oration92 in the language of the Sassenagh. The poor old man's mind was once more at ease, and after these rough, but not intractable, men had given three cheers for “bould Willy Reilly,” three more for the Cooleen Bawn, not forgetting the priest, the latter, while returning thanks, had them in convulsions of laughter. “May I never do harm,” proceeded his reverence humorously, “but the first Christian duty that every true Catholic ought to learn is to whistle on his fingers. The moment ever your children, boys, are able to give a squall, clap their forefinger93 and thumb in their mouth, and leave the rest to nature. Let them talk of their spinnet and sinnet, their fiddle94 and their diddle, their dancing and their prancing95, but there is no genteel accomplishment96 able to be compared to a rousing whistle on the fingers. See what it did for us to-night. My soul to glory, but only for it, Mr. Reilly and I would have soon taken a journey with our heels foremost; and, what is worse, the villains would have forced us to take a bird's-eye view of our own funeral from the three sticks, meaning the two that stand up, and the third that goes across them (The gallows). However, God's good, and, after all, boys, you see there is nothing like an accomplished97 education. As to the soldiers, I don't think myself that they'll recover the bit of fright they got until the new potatoes come in. Troth, while you were gathering98 in about them, I felt that the unfortunate vagabonds were to be pitied; but, Lord help us, when men are in trouble—especially in fear of their lives—and with twelve inches of sharp iron near their breasts, it's wonderful what effect fear will have on them. Troth, I wasn't far from feeling the same thing myself, only I knew there was relief at hand; at all events, it's well you kept your hands off them, for now, thank goodness, you can step home without the guilt of murder on your souls.”
Father Maguire, for such was his name, possessed the art of adapting his language and dialect to those whom he addressed, it mattered not whether they were South, West, or North; he was, in fact, a priest who had never been in any college, but received ordination99 in consequence of the severity of the laws, whose operation, by banishing100 so many of that class from the country, rendered the services of such men indispensable to the spiritual wants of the people. Father Maguire, previous to his receiving holy orders, had been a schoolmaster, and exercised his functions on that capacity in holes and corners; sometimes on the sheltery or sunny side of a hedge, as the case might be, and on other occasions when and where he could. In his magisterial101 capacity, “the accomplishment” of whistling was absolutely necessary to him, because it often happened that in stealing in the morning from his retreat during the preceding night, he knew no more where to meet his little flock of scholars than they did where to meet him, the truth being that he seldom found it safe to teach two days successively in the same place. Having selected the locality for instruction during the day, he put his forefinger and thumb into his mouth, and emitted a whistle that went over half the country. Having thus given the signal three times, his scholars began gradually and cautiously to make their appearance, radiating towards him from all-directions, reminding one of a hen in a farm-yard, who, having fallen upon some wholesome102 crumbs103, she utters that peculiar sound which immediately collects her eager little flock about her, in order to dispense104 among them the good things she has to give. Poor Father Maguire was simplicity105 itself, for, although cheerful, and a good deal of a humorist, yet he was pious106, inoffensive, and charitable. True, it is not to be imagined that he could avoid bearing a very strong feeling of enmity against the Establishment, as, indeed, we do not see, so long as human nature is what it is, how he could have done otherwise; he hated it, however, in the aggregate107, not in detail, for the truth is, that he received shelter and protection nearly as often from the Protestants themselves, both lay and clerical, as he did from those of his own creed. The poor man's crime against the State proceeded naturally from the simplicity of his character and the goodness of his heart. A Protestant peasant had seduced108 a Catholic young woman of considerable attractions, and was prevailed upon to marry her, in order to legitimize the infant which she was about to bear. Our poor priest, anxious to do as much good, and to prevent as much evil as he could, was prevailed upon to perform the ceremony, contrary to the law in that case made and provided. Ever since that, the poor man had been upon his keeping like a felon, as the law had made him; but so well known were his harmless life, his goodness of heart, and his general benevolence109 of disposition110—for, alas! he was incapable of being benevolent111 in any practical sense—that, unless among the bigoted112 officials of the day, there existed no very strong disposition to hand him over to the clutches of the terrible statute113 which he had, good easy man, been prevailed on to violate.
In the meantime, the formidable body who had saved Reilly's life and his own dispersed33, or disappeared at least; but not until they had shaken hands most cordially with Reilly and the priest, who now found themselves much in the same position in which they stood previous to their surprise and arrest.
“Now,” said Reilly, “the question is, what are we to do? where are we to go? and next, how did you come to know of the existence in this precise locality of such a body of men?”
“Because I have set my face against such meetings,” replied the priest. “One of those who was engaged to be present happened to mention the fact to me as a clergyman, but you know that, as a clergyman, I can proceed no further.”
“I understand,” said Reilly, “I perfectly114 understand you. It is not necessary. And now let me say—”
“Always trust in God, my friend,” replied the priest, in an accent quite different from that which he had used to the peasantry. “I told you, not long ago, that you would have, a bed to-night: follow me, and I will lead you to a crypt of nature's own making, which, was not known to mortal man three months ago, and which is now known only to those whose interest it is to keep the knowledge of it silent as the grave.”
They then proceeded, and soon came to a gap or opening on the left-hand side of the road through which they passed, the priest leading. Next they found themselves in a wild gully or ravine that was both deep and narrow. This they crossed, and arrived at a ledge115 of precipitous rocks, most of which were overhung to the very ground with long luxuriant heather. The priest went along this until he came to one particular spot, when he stooped, and observed a particular round stone bedded naturally in the earth.
“God-blessed be his name—has made nothing in vain,” he whispered; “I must go foremost, but do as I do.” He then raised up the long heath, and entered a low, narrow fissure116 in the rocks, Reilly following him closely. The entrance was indeed so narrow that it was capable of admitting but one man at a time, and even that by his working himself in upon his knees and elbows. In this manner they advanced in utter darkness for about thirty yards, when they reached a second opening, about three feet high, which bore some resemblance to a Gothic arch. This also it was necessary to enter consecutively117. Having passed this they were able to proceed upon their legs, still stooping, however, until, as they got onwards, they found themselves able to walk erect118. A third and larger opening, however, was still before them, over which hung a large thick winnow-cloth.
“Now,” said the priest, “leave every thing to me. If we were to put our heads in rashly here we might get a pair of bullets through them that would have as little mercy on us as those of the troopers, had we got them. No clergyman here, or anywhere else, ever carries firearms, but there are laymen119 inside who are not bound by our regulations. The only arms we are allowed to carry are the truths of our religion and the integrity of our lives.”
He then advanced a step or two, and shook the winnow-cloth three times, when a deep voice from behind it asked, “Quis venit?”
“Introibo ad altare Dei,” replied the priest, who had no sooner uttered the words than the cloth was partially120 removed, and a voice exclaimed, “Benedicite, dilecte frater; beatus qui venit in nomine Domini el sacrosanctae Ecclesiae.”
Reilly and his companion then entered the cave, which they had no sooner done than the former was seized with a degree of wonder, astonishment121, and awe122, such as he had never experienced in his life before. The whole cavern123 was one flashing scene of light and beauty, and reminded him of the gorgeous descriptions that were to be found in Arabian literature, or the brilliancy of the fairy palaces as he had heard of them in the mellow124 legends of his own country. From the roof depended gorgeous and immense stalactites, some of them reaching half way to the earth, and others of them resting upon the earth itself. Several torches, composed of dried bog125 fir, threw their strong light among them with such effect that the eye became not only dazzled but fatigued126 and overcome by the radiance of a scene so unusual. In fact, the whole scene appeared to be out of, or beyond, nature. There were about fifteen individuals present, most of them in odd and peculiar disguises, which gave them a grotesque127 and supernatural appearance, as they passed about with their strong torches—some bright and some flashing red; and as the light of either one or other fell upon the stalactites, giving them a hue128 of singular brilliancy or deep purple, Reilly could not utter a word. The costumes of the individuals about him were so strange and varied129 that he knew not what to think. Some were in the dress of clergymen, others in that of ill-clad peasants, and nearly one-third-of them in the garb130 of mendicants, who, from their careworn131 faces, appeared to have suffered severely132 from the persecution133 of the times. In a few minutes, however, about half a dozen diminutive134 beings made their appearance, busied, as far as he could guess, in employments, which his amazement135 at the whole spectacle, unprepared as he was for it, prevented him from understanding. If he had been a man of weak or superstitious136 mind, unacquainted with life and the world, it is impossible to say what he might have imagined. Independently of this—strong-minded as he was—the impression made upon him by the elf-like sprites that ran about so busily, almost induced him, for a few moments, to surrender to the illusion that he stood among individuals who had little or no natural connection with man or the external world which he inhabited. Reflection, however, and the state of the country, came to his aid, and he reasonably inferred that the cavern in which he stood was a place of concealment137 for those unfortunate individuals who, like himself, felt it necessary to evade138 the vengeance of the laws.
Whilst Reilly was absorbed in the novelty and excitement of this strange and all but supernatural spectacle, the priest held a short conversation, at some distance from him, with the strange figures which had surprised him so much. Whenever he felt himself enabled to take his eyes from the splendor139 and magnificence of all he saw around him, to follow the motions of Father Maguire, he could observe that that gentleman, from the peculiar vehemence140 of his attitudes and the evident rapidity of his language, had made either himself or his presence there the topic of very earnest discussion. In fact it appeared to him that the priest, from whatever cause, appeared to be rather hard set to defend him and to justify141 his presence among them. A tall, stern-looking man, with a lofty forehead and pale ascetic142 features—from which all the genial143 impulses of humanity, that had once characterized them, seemed almost to have been banished144 by the spirit of relentless145 persecution—appeared to bear hard upon him, whatever the charge might be, and by the severity of his manner and the solemn but unyielding emphasis of his attitudes, he seemed to have wrought146 himself into a state of deep indignation. But as it is better that our readers should be made acquainted with the topic of their discussion, rather than their attitudes, we think it necessary to commence it in a new chapter.
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1
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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concocting
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的现在分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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transgression
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| n.违背；犯规；罪过 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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felon
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| n.重罪犯；adj.残忍的 | |
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undertakings
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| 企业( undertaking的名词复数 )； 保证； 殡仪业； 任务 | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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levying
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| 征（兵）( levy的现在分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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connivance
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| n.纵容；默许 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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rapacious
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| adj.贪婪的，强夺的 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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plundered
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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cavalryman
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| 骑兵 | |
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covet
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| vt.垂涎；贪图(尤指属于他人的东西) | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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41
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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42
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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43
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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46
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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47
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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48
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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49
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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50
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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51
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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52
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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53
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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54
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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55
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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56
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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57
pinioned
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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59
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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60
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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61
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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62
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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64
noose
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| n.绳套，绞索（刑）；v.用套索捉；使落入圈套；处以绞刑 | |
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65
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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66
villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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67
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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68
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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69
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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insurgent
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| adj.叛乱的，起事的；n.叛乱分子 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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72
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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76
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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77
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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80
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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81
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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82
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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83
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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84
proscribed
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| v.正式宣布（某事物）有危险或被禁止( proscribe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
glut
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| n.存货过多，供过于求；v.狼吞虎咽 | |
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86
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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87
requite
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| v.报酬，报答 | |
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88
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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89
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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91
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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92
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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93
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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94
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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95
prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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97
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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ordination
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| n.授任圣职 | |
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100
banishing
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的现在分词 ) | |
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101
magisterial
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| adj.威风的，有权威的；adv.威严地 | |
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102
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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103
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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104
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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105
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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106
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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107
aggregate
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| adj.总计的，集合的；n.总数；v.合计；集合 | |
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108
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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109
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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110
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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111
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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112
bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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113
statute
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| n.成文法，法令，法规；章程，规则，条例 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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115
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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fissure
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| n.裂缝；裂伤 | |
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consecutively
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| adv.连续地 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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119
laymen
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| 门外汉，外行人( layman的名词复数 )； 普通教徒（有别于神职人员） | |
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120
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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121
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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125
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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126
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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127
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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136
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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141
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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