'I am a poor Catholic
boy, and the Protestants about here have no mercy on us.'
He had guessed Bridget's religion from her tone.
'Divil a bit of me blaives you're a Catholic. Not one.'
'In the name of the Father, and of the Son, etc.,' said the Lifter,
piously crossing himself. 'And I can give it to you as the priest
does in the morneen at the mass, _"In nomine Patris, et Filio et
Spiritu Sancti!"_' again crossing himself. 'And I have been at
confesheen, and said this,' striking his breast, "Mea culpa, mea
culpa, mea maxima culpa."'
'O begorra, you're one right enough, God bless you; come in out o'
the cowld, you poor cratur.' Now the truth is that The Lifter was not
a Roman Catholic, but he made himself acquainted with a little of
everything to serve him in his diabolical profession.
Poor Bridget tended him as she would a weakly infant, and made many
enquiries touching his friends, pursuits, etc., all of which he
answered promptly, in his smooth, insinuating voice. Indeed, before
he was in Bridget's company an hour he hobbled over and kissed her,
whereupon she blushed, put up her apron, and said that he was
'revivin' purty fast since he got into the hait ov the fire.
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