 | CHAPTER XI. Lionel Lincoln, or, The leaguer of Boston |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
“Ay, sir, you shall find me reasouable; if it be so, I shall
“do that that is reason.”
Slender.
During the close of the foregoing scene
Polwarth was in a bewildered state, that rendered
him utterly incapable of exertion, either
to prevent or to assist the evil intentions of
the soldiery. His discretion, and all his better
feelings, were certainly on the side of humanity,
but the idle vaunt of the simpleton had
stirred anew the natural thirst for vengeance.
He recognized, at the first glance, in the wan,
but speaking lineaments of the mother of Job,
those faded remnants of beauty that he had
traced, so lately, in the squalid female attendant
who was seen lingering near the grave of
Mrs. Lechmere. As she rushed before the men,
with all the fearlessness of a mother who stood in
defence of her child, the brightness of her dark
eyes, aided as they were by the strong glare
from the scattered balls of fire, and the intense
expression of maternal horror that shone in every
feature of her countenance, had imparted to
her appearance a dignity and interest that
greatly served to quell the unusual and dangerous
passions that beset him. He was on
and advice, when the second interruption to the
brutal purpose of the men occurred, as just related.
The effect of this strange appearance, in
such a place, and at such a time, was not less instant
on the captain than on the vulgar throug
who surrounded him. He remained a silent and
an attentive spectator.
The first sensation of the lady, in finding
herself in the centre of such a confused and
unexpected throng, was unequivocally that of
an alarmed and shrinking delicacy; but forgetting
her womanish apprehensions in the
next moment, she collected the powers of her
mind, like one sustained by high and laudable
intentions, and dropping the silken folds of
her calash, exhibited the pale, but lovely countenance
of Cecil to the view of the wondering bystanders.
After a moment of profound silence,
she spoke—
“I know not why I find this fierce collection
of faces around the sick-bed of that unfortunate
young man,” she said; “but if it be with evil
purpose, I charge you to relent, as you love the
honour of your gallant profession, or fear the
power of your leaders. I boast myself a soldier's
wife, and promise you, in the name of one who
has the ear of Howe, pardon for what is past, or
punishment for your violence, as you conduct
yourselves.”
The rude listeners stared at each other in irresolute
hesitation, seeming already to waver in
their purpose, when the old grenadier, whose
fierceness had so nearly cost Job his life, gruffly
replied—
“If you're an officer's lady, madam, you'll be
knowing how to feel for the fri'nds of him that's
dead and gone; I put it to the face of your ladyship's
reason, if it's not too much for men to bear,
boasting on the high-ways and through the
streets of the town, that he has been the death of
the like of captain M'Fuse, of the grenadiers of
that same radg'ment!”
“I believe I understand you, friend,” returned
Cecil, “for I have heard it whispered that the
young man was believed to aid the Americans on
the bloody day to which you allude—but if it is not
lawful to kill in battle, what are you, whose whole
trade is war?”
She was interrupted by half-a-dozen eager,
though respectful voices, muttering in the incoherent
and vehement manner of their country,
“It's all a difference, my lady!” “Fair fighting
isn't foul-fighting, and foul fighting is murder!”
with many other similar half-formed and equally
intelligible remonstrances. When this burst was
ended, the same grenadier who had before spoken,
took on himself the office of explaining.
“If your ladyship spoke never a word again,
ye've said the truth this time,” he answered,
“though it isn't exactly the truth, at all. When
a man is kill't in the fair war, its a god-send; and
no true Irishman will gainsay the same; but
skulking behind a dead body, and taking aim
into the f'atures of a fellow-crature, is what we
complain of against the bloody-minded rascal.
Besides, wasn't the day won? and even his death
couldn't give them the victory!”
“I know not all these nice distinctions in your
dreadful calling, friend,” Cecil replied, “but I
have heard that many fell after the troops mounted
the works.”
“That did they; sure your ladyship is knowing
all about it! and it's the more need that some
should be punished for the murders! It's hard
to tell when we've got the day with men who make
a fight of it after they are fairly baitin!”
“That others suffered under similar circumstances,”
continued Cecil, with a quivering lip,
and a tremulous motion of her eye lids, “I well
know, but had never supposed it more than the
usual fortune of every war. But even if this
youth has erred—look at him! Is he an object
for the resentment of men who pride themselves
on meeting their enemies on equal terms!
He has long been visited by a blow from a hand
far mightier than yours, and even now is labouring,
in addition to all other misfortunes, under
that dangerous distemper whose violence seldom
spares those it seizes. Nay, you, in the
blindness of your anger, expose yourselves to
its attacks, and when you think only of revenge,
may become its victims!”
The crowd insensibly fell back as she spoke,
and a large circle was left around the bed of
Job, while many in the rear stole silently from
the building, with a haste that betrayed how completely
apprehension had got the better of their
more evil passions. Cecil paused but an instant,
and pursued her advantage.
“Go,” she said; “leave this dangerous vicinity.
I have business with this young man, touching
the interests, if not the life of one dear, deservedly
dear to the whole army, and would
be left alone with him and his mother. Here is
money—retire to your own quarters, and endeavour
to avert the danger you have so wantonly
braved, by care and regimen. Go; all shall
be forgotten and pardoned.”
The reluctant grenadier took her gold, and
perceiving that he was already deserted by most
of his companions, he made an awkward obeisance
to the fair being before him, and withdrew,
not without, however, casting many a savage
and sullen glance at the miserable wretch who
Not a soldier now remained in the building,
and the noisy and rapid utterance of the
retiring party, as each vehemently recounted his
deeds, soon became inaudible in the distance.
Cecil then turned to those who remained, and
cast a rapid glance at each individual of the party.
The instant she encountered the wondering look
of Polwarth, the blood mantled her pale features
once more, and her eyes fell, for an instant, in
embarrassment, to the floor.
“I trust we have been drawn here for a similar
purpose, captain Polwarth,” she said, when
the slight confusion had passed away—“the welfare
of a common friend?”
“You have not done me injustice,” he replied.
“When the sad office, which your fair cousin
charged me with, was ended, I hastened hither
to follow a clue which I have reason to believe
will conduct us to”—
“What we most desire to find,” said Cecil,
involuntarily glancing her anxious eyes towards
the other spectators. “But our first duty is
humanity. Cannot this miserable young man
be reconveyed to his own apartment, and have
his hurts examined.”
“It may be done now, or after our examination,”
returned the captain, with a cool indifference
that caused Cecil to look up at him in
surprise. Perceiving the unfavourable impression
his apathy had produced, Polwarth turned
carelessly to a couple of men who were still curious
lookers-on, at the outer door of the building,
he called to them—“Here, Shearflint, Meriton,
remove the fellow into yonder room.”
The servants in waiting, who had been hitherto
wondering witnesses of all that passed, received
this mandate with strong disgust. Meriton
the verge of disobedience, before he consented
to touch such an object of squalid misery. As
Cecil, however, enforced the order by her wishes,
the disagreeable duty was performed, and Job replaced
on his pallet in the tower, from which
he had been rudely dragged an hour before, by
the soldiers.
At the moment when all danger of further vio
lence disappeared, Abigail had sunk on some of
the lumber of the apartment, where she remained
during the removal of her child, in a sort
of stupid apathy. When, however, she perceived
that they were now surrounded by those who were
bent on deeds of mercy rather than of anger, she
slowly followed into the little room, and became
an anxious observer of the succeeding events.
Polwarth seemed satisfied with what had been
done for Job, and now stood aloof, in sullen attendance
on the pleasure of Cecil. The latter,
who had directed every movement with female
tenderness and care, bade the servants retire into
the outer-room and wait her orders. When Abigail,
therefore, took her place, in silence, near
the bed of her child, there remained present, besides
herself and the sick, only Cecil, the captain,
and the unknown man, who had apparently
led the former to the warehouse. In
addition to the expiring flames of the oakum,
the feeble light of a candle was shed through the
room, merely rendering the gloomy misery of its
tenants more striking.
Notwithstanding the high, but calm resolution
which Cecil had displayed in the foregoing scene
with the rioters, and which still manifested itself,
in the earnest brightness of her intelligent eye,
she appeared willing to profit by the duskiness
of the apartment, to conceal her expressive features
She placed herself in one of the shadows
of the room, and partly raised the calash, by
a graceful movement of one of her hands, while
she addressed the simpleton—
“Though I have not come hither with any intent
to punish, nor in any manner to intimidate
you with threats, Job Pray,” she said, with an
earnestness that rendered the soft tones of her
voice doubly impressive—“yet have I come to
question you on matters that it would be wrong,
as well as cruel in you, to misrepresent, or in any
manner to conceal”—
“You have little cause to fear that any thing
but the truth will be uttered by my child,” interrupted
Abigail. “The same power that destroyed
his reason, has dealt tenderly with his
heart—the boy knows no guile—would to God
the same could be said of the sinful woman who
bore him!”
“I hope the character you give your son
will be supported by his conduct,” replied Cecil:
“with this assurance of his integrity, I will
directly question him. But that you may see I
take no idle liberty with the young man, let me
explain my motives!” She hesitated a moment,
and averted her face unconsciously, as she continued—“I
should think, Abigail Pray, that my
person must be known to you?”
“It is—it is,” returned the impatient woman,
who appeared to feel the feminine and polished
elegance of the other a reproach to her own
misery—“you are the happy and wealthy heiress
of her whom I have seen this day laid in her
vault. The grave will open for all alike! the
rich and the poor, the happy as well as the
wretched! Yes—yes, I know you! you are the
bride of a rich man's son!”
Cecil shook back the dark tresses that had
fallen about her countenance, and raised her
face, tinged with its richest bloom, as she answered,
with an air of matronly dignity—
“If you then know of my marriage, you will
at once perceive that I have the interest of a wife
in Major Lincoln—I would wish to learn his
movements of your son.”
“Of my boy! of Job! from the poor despised
child of poverty and disease, would you learn
tidings of your husband?—no—no, young lady,
you mock us; he is not worthy to be in the secrets
of one so great and happy!”
“Yet am I deceived if he is not! Has there
not been one called Ralph, a frequent inmate of
your dwelling, during the past year, and has he
not been concealed here within a very few hours?”
Abigail started at this question, though she did
not hesitate to answer, without prevarication—
“It is true—If I am to be punished for harbouring
a being that comes I know whence, and goes
I know whither; who can read the heart, and
knows what man, by his own limited powers,
could never know, I must submit. He was here
yesterday; he may be here again to-night; for
he comes and goes at will. Your generals and
army may interfere, but such as I dare not forbid
it!”
“Who accompanied him when he departed
last?” asked Cecil, in a voice so low, that, but
for the profound stillness of the place, it would
have been inaudible.
“My child—my weak, unmeaning, miserable
child!” said Abigail, with a reckless promptitude
that seemed to court any termination to her misery,
however sudden or adverse. “If it be treasonable
to follow in the footsteps of that nameless
man, Job has much to answer for!”
“You mistake my purpose—good, rather than
evil, will attend your answers, should they be
found true.”
“True!” repeated the woman, ceasing the
rocking motion of her body, and looking proudly
up into the anxious face of Cecil—“but you
are great and powerful, and are privileged to
open the wounds of the unhappy!”
“If I have said any thing to hurt the feelings
of a child, I shall deeply regret the words,” said
Cecil, with gentle fervour—“I would rather be
your friend than your oppressor, as you will learn
when occasion offers.”
“No—no—you can never be a friend to me!”
exclaimed the woman, shuddering; “the wife of
Major Lincoln ought never to serve the interests
of Abigail Pray!”
The simpleton, who had apparently lain in
dull indifference to what was passing, raised
himself now from among his rags, and said, with
foolish pride—
“Major Lincoln's lady has come to see Job,
because Job is a gentleman's son!”
“You are the child of sin and misery!” groaned
Abigail, burying her head in her cloak—
“would that you had never seen the light of day!”
“Tell me, then, Job, whether Major Lincoln
himself has paid you this compliment, as well
as I,” said Cecil, without regarding the conduct
of the mother—“when did you see him last?”
“Perhaps I can put these questions in a more
intelligible manner,” said the stranger, with a
meaning glance of his eye towards Cecil, that she
appeared instantly to comprehend. He turned
then to Job, whose countenance he studied closely,
for several moments, before he continued—
“Boston must be a fine place for parades and
exercise?”
“Job always keeps time in the marchings,”
returned the simpleton; “'tis a grand sight to
see the grannies treading it off to the awful sound
of drums and trumpets!”
“And Ralph,” said the other, soothingly—
“does he march in their company too?”
“Ralph! he's a great warrior! he teaches
the people their trainings, out on the hills—Job
sees him there every time he goes for the Major's
provisions.”
“This requires some explanation,” said the
stranger.
“'Tis easily obtained,” returned the observant
Polwarth. “The young man has been the bearer
of certain articles, periodically, from the country
into the town, during the last six months, under
the favour of a flag.”
The man mused a moment before he pursued
the subject.
“When were you last among the rebels, Job?”
he at length asked.
“You had best not call the people rebels,”
muttered the young man, sullenly, “for they
wont put up with bitter names!”
“I was wrong, indeed,” said the stranger.
“But when went you last for provisions?”
“Job got in last Sabba'day morning; and
that's only yesterday!”
“How happened it, fellow, that you did not
bring the articles to me?” demanded Polwarth,
with a good deal of impatient heat.
“He has unquestionably a sufficient reason for
the apparent neglect,” said the cautious and
soothing stranger. “You brought them here,
I suppose, for some good reason?”
“Ay! to feed his own gluttony!” muttered the
irritated captain.
The mother of the young man clasped her
hands together convulsively, and made an effort
to rise and speak, but she sunk again into her
humble posture, as if choked by emotions that
were too strong for utterance.
This short, but impressive pantomime was
unnoticed by the stranger, who continued his inquiries
in the same cool and easy manner as before.
“Are they yet here?” he asked.
“Certain,” said the unsuspecting simpleton;”
“Job has hid them 'till Major Lincoln comes
back. Both Ralph and Major Lincoln forgot
to tell Job what to do with the provisions.”
“In that case I am surprised you did not
pursue them with your load.”
“Every body thinks Job's a fool,” muttered
the young man; “but he knows too much to
be lugging provisions out ag'in among the people.
Why!” he continued, raising himself, and
speaking, with a bright glare dancing across his
eyes, that betrayed how much he prized the envied
advantage—“the Bay-men come down with
cart-loads of things to eat, while the town is filled
with hunger!”
“True; I had forgotten they were gone out
among the Americans—of course they went under
the flag that you bore in?”
“Job didn't bring any flag—insygns carry the
flags! He brought a turkey, a grand ham, and a
little sa'ce—there wasn't any flag among them.”
At the sound of these eatables, the captain pricked
up his ears, and he probably would have again
violated the rigid rules of decorum, had not the
stranger continued his questions.
“I see the truth of all you say, my sensible
fellow,” he observed. “It was easy for Ralph
and Major Lincoln to go out by means of the
same privilege that you used to enter?”
“To be sure,” muttered Job, who, tired of the
questions, had already dropped his head again
among his blankets—“Ralph knows the way—
he's Boston born!”
The stranger turned to the attentive bride, and
bowed, as if he were satisfied with the result of his
examination. Cecil understood the expression of
his countenance, and made a movement towards
the place where Abigail Pray was seated on a chest,
betraying, by the renewed rocking of her body,
and the low groans that from time to time escaped
her, the agony of mind she endured.
“My first care,” she said, speaking to the mother
of Job, “shall be to provide for your wants.
After which I may profit by what we have now
gathered from your son.”
“Care not for me and mine!” returned Abigail,
in a tone of bitter resignation; “the last
blow is struck, and it behoves such as we to bow
our heads to it in submission. Riches and plenty
could not save your grandmother from the
tomb, and perhaps Death may take pity, ere
long, on me. What do I say, sinner that I
am! can I never bring my rebellious heart to
wait his time!”
Shocked at the miserable despair that the
other exhibited, and suddenly recollecting the
similar evidences of a guilty life that the end
of Mrs. Lechmere had revealed, Cecil continued
silent, in sensitive distress. After a moment,
to collect her thoughts, she said, with the meekness
of a Christian, united to the soothing gentleness
of her sex—
“We are surely permitted to administer to our
earthly wants, whatever may have been our transgressions.
in my wish to serve you. Let us now
go,” she added, addressing her unknown companion—then
observing Polwarth making an indication
to advance to her assistance, she gently
motioned him back, and anticipated his offer,
by saying, “I thank you, sir—but I have Meriton,
and this worthy man, besides my own maid
without—I will not further interfere with your particular
objects.”
As she spoke, she bestowed a melancholy,
though sweet smile on the captain, and left the
tower and the building, before he could presume
to dispute her pleasure. Notwithstanding Cecil
and her companion had obtained from Job all
that he could expect, or in fact had desired to
know, Polwarth lingered in the room, making
those preparations that should indicate an intention
to depart. He found, at length, that his presence
was entirely disregarded by both mother
and child. The one was still sitting, with her
head bowed to her bosom, abandoned to her
own sorrows, while the other had sunk into his
customary dull lethargy, giving no other signs of
life than by his laboured and audible breathing.
The captain, for a moment, looked upon the
misery of the apartment, which wore a still more
dreary aspect under the dull light of the paltry
candle, as well as at the disease and suffering
which were too plainly exhibited in the persons
of its abject tenants; but the glance at neither
served to turn him from his purpose. Temptation
tion had beset the humble follower of Epicurus in
a form that never failed to subdue his most philosophic
resolutions, and, in this instance, it prevailed
once more over his humanity. Approaching
the pallet of the simpleton, he spoke to him
in a sharp voice, saying
“You must reveal to me what you have done
with the provisions with which Mr. Seth Sage
has entrusted you, young man—I cannot overlook
so gross a violation of duty, in a matter
of such singular importance. Unless you wish
to have the grannies of the 18th back upon
you, speak at once, and speak truly.”
Job continued obstinately silent, but Abigail
raised her head, and answered for her child—
“He has never failed to carry the things to the
quarters of the Major, whenever he got back.
No, no—if my boy was so graceless as to steal,
it would not be him that he would rob!”
“I hope so—I hope so, good woman; but this
is a sort of temptation to which men yield easily
in times of scarcity,” returned the impatient
captain, who probably felt some inward tokens
of his own frailty in such matters.—“If they had
been delivered would not I have been consulted
concerning their disposition! The young man
acknowledges that he quitted the American camp
yesterday at an early hour.”
“No no” and Job, “Ralph made him come
away on Saturda'-night. He left the people without
his dinner!”
“And repaid his loss by eating the stores! Is
this your honesty, fellow?”
“Ralph was in such a hurry that he wouldn't
stop to eat. Ralph's a proper warrior, but he
doesn't seem to know how sweet it is to eat!”
“Glutton! gormandizer! Thou ostrich of a
man!” exclaimed the angry Polwarth—“is it
not enough that you have robbed me of my
own, but you must make me more conscious of
my loss by thy silly prating?”
“If you really suspect my child of doing wrong
to his employers,” said Abigail, “you know
neither his temper nor his breeding. I will answer
I say it, that nothing in the shape of food has
entered his mouth for many long and weary hours.
Hear you not his piteous longings for nourishment?
God, who knows all hearts, will hear and
believe his cry!”
“What say you, woman!” cried Polwarth,
aghast with horror, “not eaten did you say!—
Why hast thou not, unnatural mother, provided
for his wants—why has he not shared in your
meals?”
Abigail looked up into his face with eyes that
gleamed with hopeless want, as she answered—
“Would I willingly see the child of my body
perish of hunger! The last crumb he had was
all that was left me, and that came from the
hands of one, who, in better justice, should have
sent me poison!”
“Nab don't know of the bone that Job found
before the barracks,” said the young man, feebly;
“I wonder if the king knows how sweet bones
are?”
“And the provisions, the stores!” cried Polwarth,
nearly choking—“foolish boy, what hast
thou done with the provisions?”
“Job knew the grannies couldn't find them
under that oakum,” said the simpleton, raising
himself to point out their place of concealment,
with silly exultation—“when Major Lincoln
comes back, may be he'll give Nab and Job
the bones to pick!”
Polwarth was no sooner made acquainted with
the situation of the precious stores, than he tore
them from their concealment, with the violence of a
maniac. As he separated the articles with an unsteady
nand, he rather panted than breathed; and
during the short operation, every feature in his
honest face was working with extraordinary emotion.
tone—“no food!” “suffering of inanition!” or
some such expressive exclamation, that sufficiently
explained the current of his thoughts. When
all was fairly exposed, he shouted, in a tremendous
voice—
“Shearflint! thou rascal! Shearflint—where
have you hidden yourself?”
The reluctant menial knew how dangerous it
was to hesitate answering a summons uttered in
such a voice, and while his master was yet repeating
his cries, he appeared at the door of the little
apartment, with a face expressive of the deepest
attention.
“Light up the fire, thou prince of idlers!”
Polwarth continued in the same high strain;
“here is food, and there is hunger! God be
praised that I am the man who is permitted to
bring the two acquainted! Here, throw on
oakum—light up, light up!”
As these rapid orders were accompanied by a
corresponding earnestness of action, the servant,
who knew his master's humour, sat himself most
diligently at work to comply. A pile of the tarred
combustible was placed on the dreary and empty
hearth, and by a touch of the candle it was lighted
into a blaze. As the roar of the chimney, and
the bright glare were heard and seen, the mother
and child both turned their louging eyes towards
the busy actors in the scene. Polwarth threw
aside his cane, and commenced slicing the ham
with a dexterity that denoted great practice, as
well as an eagerness that renewed the credit of
his disgraced humanity.
“Bring wood—hand down that apology for
a gridiren—make coals, make coals at once, rascal,”
he said, at short intervals—“God forgive
me, that I should ever have meditated evil to
D'ye hear, thou Shearffint! bring more wood; I
shall be ready for the fire in a minute.”
“'Tis impossible, sir,” said the worried domestic;
“I have brought the smallest chip there
is to be found—wood is too precious in Boston
to be lying in the streets.”
“Where do you keep your fuel, woman?”
demanded the captain, unconscious that he addressed
her in the same rough strain that he
used to his menial—“I am ready to put down.”
“You see it all, you see it all!” said Abigail,
in the submissive tones of a stricken conscience;
“the judgment of God has not fallen on me
singly!”
“No wood! no provisions!” exclaimed Polwarth,
speaking with difficulty—then dashing
his hand across his eyes, he continued to his
man, in a voice whose hoarseness he intended
should conceal his emotion—“thou villain,
Shearflint, come hither—unstrap my leg.”
The servant looked at him in wonder, but an
impatient gesture hastened his compliance.
“Split it into ten thousand fragments; 'tis
seasoned and ready for the fire. The best of
them, they of flesh I mean, are but useless incumbrances,
after all! A cook wants hands,
eyes, nose, and palate, but I see no use for a
leg!”
While he was speaking, the philosophic captain
seated himself on the hearth with great indifference,
and by the aid of Shearflint, the culinary
process was soon in a state of forwardness.
“There are people,” resumed the diligent Polwarth,
who did not neglect his avocation while
speaking, “that eat but twice a-day; and some
who eat but once; though I never knew any man
thrive who did not supply nature in four substantial
visitations on humanity, and there should be
plans invented to conduct a war without them.
The moment you begin to starve a soldier, he
grows tame and melancholy: feed him, and defy
the devil! How is it, my worthy fellow; do you
like your ham running or dry?”
The savoury smell of the meat had caused the
suffering invalid to raise his feverish body, and
he sat watching, with greedy looks, every movement
of his unexpected benefactor. His parched
lips were already working with impatience, and
every glance of his glassy eye betrayed the absolute
dominion of physical want over his feeble
mind. To this question he made the simple and
touching reply, of—
“Job isn't particular in his eating.”
“Neither am I,” returned the methodical gourmand,
returning a piece of the meat to the fire,
that Job had already devoured in imagination—
“one would like to get it up well, notwithstanding
the hurry. A single turn more, and it will be
fit for the mouth of a prince. Bring hither that
trencher, Shearflint—it is idle to be particular
about crockery in so pressing a case. Greasy
scoundrel, would you dish a ham in its gravy!
What a nosegay it is, after all! Come hither, help
me to the bed.”
“May the Lord, who sees and notes each kind
thought of his creatures, bless and reward you
for this care of my forlorn boy!” exclaimed Abigail,
in the fullness of her heart; “but will it be
prudent to give such strong nourishment to one
in a burning fever?”
“What else would you give, woman? I doubt
not he owes his disease to his wants. An empty stomach
is like an empty pocket, a place for the devil
to play his gambols in. 'Tis your small doctor
who prates of a meager regimen. Hunger is a
above listening to quackery, will believe it can be
a remedy. Food is the prop of life—and eating,
like a crutch to a maimed man—Shearflint,
examine the ashes for the irons of my supporter,
and then dish a bit of the meat for the poor
woman. Eat away, my charming boy, eat away!”
he continued, rubbing his hands in honest delight,
to see the avidity with which the famishing
Job received his boon. “The second pleasure
in life is to see a hungry man enjoy his
meal. The first being more deeply seated in human
nature. This ham has the true Virginia flavour!
Have you such a thing as a spare trencher,
Shearflint? It is so near the usual hour, I may
as well sup. It is rare, indeed, that a man enjoys
two such luxuries at once!”
The tongue of Polwarth ceased the instant
Shearflint administered to his wants; the warehouse,
into which he had so lately entered with
such fell intent, exhibiting the strange spectacle
of the captain, sharing, with social communion,
in the humble repast of its hunted and miserable
tenants.
| CHAPTER XI. Lionel Lincoln, or, The leaguer of Boston | |