As the party turned into the Stilbro' road, they met what little wind there was; the rain dashed in their faces. Moore had been fretting his companion previously, and now, braced up by the raw breeze, and perhaps irritated by the sharp drizzle, he began to goad him.
"Does your Peninsular news please you still?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" was the surly demand of the rector.
"I mean, have you still faith in that Baal of a Lord Wellington?"
"And what do you mean now?"
"Do you still believe that this wooden-faced and pebble-hearted idol of England has power to send fire down from heaven to consume the French holocaust you want to offer up?"
"I believe Wellington will flog Bonaparte's marshals into the sea the day it pleases him to lift his arm."

As the party turned into the Stilbro' road, the rain dashed in their faces. Moore, braced up by the raw breeze and sharp drizzle, began to goad his companion.
"Does your Peninsular news please you still?" he asked. "Have you still faith in that false god of a Lord Wellington?"
"What do you mean?"
"Do you still believe that this wooden-faced, pebble-hearted idol has power to send fire down from heaven to consume the French?"
"I believe Wellington will flog Bonaparte's marshals into the sea whenever he likes."
