University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

On the banks of the Ennoree, in a little nook of meadow, formed
by the bend of the stream which, fringed with willows, swept
round it almost in a semicircle, the inland border of the meadow
being defined by a gently rising wall of hills covered with wood,
was seated within a few paces of the water, a neat little cottage
with a group of out-buildings, presenting all the conveniences of a
comfortable farm. The dwelling-house itself was shaded by a
cluster of trees which had been spared from the native forest, and
within view were several fields of cultivated ground neatly inclosed
with fences. A little lower down the stream and within a short
distance of the house, partially concealed by the bank, stood a
small low-browed mill, built of wood. It was near sundown, and
the golden light of evening sparkled upon the shower which fell
from the leaky race that conducted the water to the head gate,
and no less glittered on the spray that was dashed from the large
and slowly revolving wheel. The steady gush of the stream, and
the monotonous clack of the machinery, aided by the occasional
discordant scream of a flock of geese that frequented the border
of the race, and by the gambols of a few children, who played
about the confines of the mill, excited pleasant thoughts of rural
business and domestic content. A rudely constructed wagon, to
which were harnessed two lean horses, stood at the door of the
mill, and two men, one of them advanced in years, and the other
apparently just beyond the verge of boyhood, were occupied in
heaping upon it a heavy load of bags of meal. The whitened
habiliments of these men showed them to be the proper attendants
of the place, and now engaged in their avocation. A military
guard stood by the wagon, and as soon as it was filled, they were

seen to put the horses in motion, and to retire by a road that
crossed the stream and take the descending direction of the current
close along the opposite bank.

When this party had disappeared, the old man directed the mill
to be stopped. The gates were let down, the machinery ungeared,
and, in a few moments, all was still. The millers now retired to
the little habitation hard by.

“There is so much work lost,” said the elder to his companion,
as they approached the gate that opened into the curtilage of the
dwelling. “We shall never be paid for that load. Colonel Innis
doesn't care much out of whose pocket he feeds his men; and as
to his orders upon Rawdon's quarter-master, why it is almost the
price of blood to venture so far from home to ask for payment—to
say nothing of the risk of finding the army purse as low as a poor
miller's at home. I begrudge the grain, Christopher, and the work
that grinds it; but there is no disputing with these whiskered foot-pads
with bayonets in their hands—they must have it and will
have it, and there's an end of it.”

“Aye,” replied the man addressed by the name of Christopher,
“as you say, they will have it; and if they are told that a poor
man's sweat has been mixed with their bread, they talk to us about
the cause—the cause—the cause. I am tired of this everlasting
preaching about king and country. I don't know but if I had my
own way I'd take the country against the king any day. What
does George the Third care for us, with a great world of water
between?”

“Whisht, Christopher Shaw—whisht, boy! We have no opinions
of our own; trees and walls have ears at this time. It isn't for
us to be bringing blood and burning under our roof, by setting up
for men who have opinions. No, no. Wait patiently; and perhaps,
Christopher, it will not be long before this gay bird Cornwallis
will be plucked of his feathers. The man is on his way
now that, by the help of the Lord, may bring down as proud a
hawk as ever flew across the water. If it should be otherwise,
trust to the power above the might of armies, and wiser than the
cunning of men, that, by a righteous and peaceful life, we shall
make our lot an easier one than it may ever be in mingling in the
strife of the evil-minded.”

“It is hard, for all that—wise as it is—to be still,” said Christopher,
“with one's arms dangling by one's side, when one's neighbors
and kinsmen are up and girding themselves for battle. It
will come to that at last; fight we must. And, I don't care
who knows it, I am for independence, uncle Allen.”

“Your passion, boy, and warmth of temper, I doubt, outrun
your discretion,” said the old man. “But you speak bravely and
I cannot chide you for it. For the present, at least, be temperate,
and, if you can, silent. It is but unprofitable talk for persons in
our condition.”

The uncle and nephew now entered the house, and Allen Musgrove—for
this was the person to whom I have introduced my
reader—was soon seated at his family board, invoking a blessing
upon his evening meal, and dispensing the cares of a quiet and
peaceful household.

“I wonder Mary stays so long with her aunt,” he said, as the
early hour of repose drew nigh. “It is an ill place for her, wife,
and not apt to please the girl with anything she may find there.
Wat Adair is an irregular man, and savage as the beasts he hunts.
His associates are not of the best, and but little suited to Mary's
quiet temper.”

The wife, a staid, motherly-looking woman of plain and placid
exterior, who was busily engaged amongst a thousand scraps of
coarse, homespun-cloth, which she was fashioning into a garment
for some of the younger members of her family, paused from her
work, upon this appeal to her, and, directing her glances above
her spectacles to her husband, replied:

“Mary has been taught to perform her duties to her kinsfolk,
and it isn't often that she counts whether it is pleasant to her or
not. Besides, Watty, rough as he is, loves our girl; and love goes
a great way to make us bear and forbear both, husband. I'll warrant
our daughter comes home when she thinks it right. But it is
a weary way to ride over a wild country, and more so now when
Whig and Tory have distracted the land. I wish Christopher
could be spared to go for her.”

“He shall go to-morrow, wife,” returned Allen Musgrove. “Wat
Adair, love her or not, is not the man to go out of his way for a
wandering girl, and would think nothing to see the child set out

by herself. But come, it is Saturday night and near bed-time.
Put aside your work, wife; a lesson from the Book of Truth, and
prayers, and then to rest,” he said, as he took down a family Bible
from a shelf and spread it before him.

The old man put on a pair of glasses, which, by a spring, sustained
themselves upon his nose, and with an audible and solemn
voice he read a portion of scripture; then, placing himself on his
knees, whilst the whole family followed his example, he poured
forth a fervent and heart-inspired prayer. It was a simple and
homely effusion, delivered from the suggestions of the moment, in
accordance with a devout habit of thanksgiving and supplication
to which he had long been accustomed. He was a Presbyterian,
and had witnessed, with many a pang, the profligate contempt and
even savage persecution with which his sect had been visited by
many of the Tory leaders—especially by the loyalist partisan, Captain
Huck, who had been recently killed in an incursion of
Sumpter's at Williams's plantation, not far distant from Musgrove's
present residence. It was this unsparing hostility towards his
religion, and impious derision of it, that, more than any other
circumstance, had begotten that secret dislike of the Tory cause
which, it was known to a few, the miller entertained, although his
age, situation, and, perhaps, some ancient prejudice of descent (for
he was the son of an early Scotch emigrant), would rather have
inclined him to take the royal side; that side which, in common
belief and in appearance, he still favored.

“Thou hast bent thy bow,” he said, in the warmest effusion of
his prayer, “and shot thine arrows, O Lord, amongst this people;
thou hast permitted the ministers of vengeance, and the seekers of
blood to ride amongst us, and thy wrath hath not yet bowed the
stubborn spirit of sin—but the hard hearts are given strong arms,
and with curses they have smitten the people. Yet even the fire-brand
that it did please thee not to stay because of our sins—yea,
even the firebrand that did cause conflagration along our border,
until by the light the erring children of men might read in the
dark night, from one end of our boundary even unto the other,
the enormity of their own backslidings, and their forgetfulness of
thee; that firebrand hath been thrown into the blaze which it had
itself kindled, and, like a weapon of war which hath grown dull

in the work of destruction, hath been cast into the place of
unprofitable lumber, and hath been utterly consumed. The persecutor
of the righteous and the scoffer of the word hath paid the
price of blood, and hath fallen into the snares wherewith he lay in
wait to ensnare the feet of the unthinking. But stay now, O Lord
of Hosts, the hand of the destroyer, and let the angel of peace
again spread his wing over our racked and wearied land. Take
from the wicked heart his sword and shield, and make the righteous
man safe beside his family hearth. Shelter the head of the
wanderer, and guide in safety the hunted fugitive who flees before
the man of wrath; comfort the captive in his captivity, and make
all hearts in this rent and sundered province to know and bless thy
mercies for ever more. In especial, we beseech thee to give the
victory to him that hath right, and to 'stablish the foundations of
the government in justice and truth, giving liberty of conscience
and liberty of law to those who know how to use it.” At this
point the worship of the evening was arrested by a slight knocking
at the door.

“Who goes there?” exclaimed the old man, starting from his
kneeling position. “Who raps at my door?”

“A stranger, good man,” replied a voice without. “A poor
fellow that has been hot pressed and hard run.”

“Friend or foe?” asked Allen Musgrove.

“A very worthless friend to any man at this present speaking,”
replied the person on the outside of the door; “and not fit to be
counted a foe until he has had something to eat. If you be
Allen Musgrove, open your door.”

“Are you alone, or do you come with followers at your
heels? My house is small and can give scant comfort to
many?”

“Faith, it is more than I know,” responded the other; “but
if I have followers it is not with my will that they shall cross
your door-sill. If you be Allen Musgrove, or if you be not, open,
friend. I am as harmless as a barndoor fowl.”

“I do not fear you, sir,” said Musgrove, opening the door;
“you are welcome to all I can give you, whatever colors you
serve.”

“Then give us your hand,” said Horse Shoe Robinson, striding

into the apartment. “You are a stranger to me, but if you are
Allen Musgrove, the miller, that I have hearn men speak of, you
are not the person to turn your back on a fellow creature in distress.
Your sarvent, mistress,” he added, bowing to the dame.
“Far riding and fast riding gives a sort of claim these times; so
excuse me for sitting down.”

“You are welcome, again; your name, sir?” said Musgrove.

“Have I guessed yours?” inquired Horse Shoe.

“You have.”

“Then you must guess mine; for it isn't convenient to tell it.”

“Some poor Whig soldier,” said Christopher Shaw privately to
Musgrove. “It isn't right to make him betray himself. You are
hungry, friend,” added Christopher; “and we will first get you
something to eat, and then you may talk all the better for it.”

“That's a good word,” said Horse Shoe, “and a brave word, as
things go; for it isn't every man has the courage to feed an enemy
in these days, though I made the devils do it for me this morning,
ha, ha, ha! Some water, Mr. Musgrove, and it will not come
badly to my hand if you can tangle it somewhat.”

The refreshment asked for was produced by Christopher Shaw;
and Horse Shoe, taking the brimming cup in his hand, stood up,
and with a rather awkward courtesy, pledged the draught with
“Your health, good mistress, and luck to the little ones! for we
grown-up babies are out of the days of luck, except the luck of
escaping twisted hemp, or drum-head law, which for to-night, I
believe, is mine;” and he swallowed the mixture at a draught;
then, with a long sigh, placed the cup upon the table and resumed
his seat. “That there spirit, Mr. Musgrove,” he added, “is a
special good friend in need, preach against it who will!”

“You say you have ridden far to-day,” remarked the miller:
“you must be tired.”

“I am not apt to get tired,” replied the sergeant, turning his
sword-belt over his head, and flinging the weapon upon a bench;
“but I am often hungry.”

“My wife,” said Musgrove, smiling, “has taken that hint before
you spoke it; she has already ordered something for you to
eat.”

“That's an excellent woman!” exclaimed Horse Shoe. “You

see, Allen Musgrove, I don't stand much upon making myself free
of your house. I have hearn of you often before I saw you, man;
and I know all about you. You are obliged to keep fair weather
with these Tories—who have no consideration for decent, orderly
people—but your heart is with the boys that go for liberty. You
see I know you, and am not afeard to trust you. Perchance, you
mought have hearn tell of one Horse Shoe Robinson, who lived over
here at the Waxhaws?”

“I have heard many stories about that man,” replied the
miller.

“Well, I won't tell you that he is in your house to-night, for
fear the Tories might take you to account for harboring such a
never-do-well. But you have got a poor fellow under your roof
that has had a hard run to get here.”

“In my house!” exclaimed Musgrove; “Horse Shoe Robinson!”
and then, after a pause, he continued, “well, well, there is no rule
of war that justifies a Christian in refusing aid and comfort to a
houseless and hunted stranger, who comes with no thought of
harm to a peaceful family hearth. I take no part in the war on
either side; and, in your ear, friend Robinson, I take none against
you or the brave men that stand by you.”

“Your hand again,” said Horse Shoe, reaching towards the
miller. “Allen, I have come to you under a sore press of heels.
An officer of the Continental army and me have been travelling
through these here parts, and we have been most onaccountably
ambushed by a half wild-cat, half bull-dog, known by the
name of Captain Hugh Habershaw, who cotched us in the night
at Grindall's ford.”

“Heaven have mercy on the man who has anything to do with
Hugh Habershaw!” exclaimed the miller's wife.

“Amen, mistress,” responded the sergeant; “for a surlier, misbegotten
piece of flesh, there's not in these wild woods, giving you
the choice of bear, panther, catamount, rattlesnake, or what not.
We were sot upon,” continued the sergeant, “by this bully and a
bevy of his braggadocios, and made prisoners; but I took a chance
to slip the noose this morning, and after riding plump into a
hornet's nest at Blackstock's, where I put on a new face and
tricked the guard out of a dinner and this here old sword, I took a

course for this mill, axing people along the road where I should
find Allen Musgrove; and so, after making some roundabouts and
dodging into the woods until night came on, to keep clear of the
Tories, here I am.”

“And the officer?” said Musgrove.

“He is in the hands of the Philistines yet—most likely now at
Blackstock's.”

“What might be his name?”

“Major Butler—a bold, warm gentleman—that's been used to
tender life and good fortune. He has lands on the sea-coast—
unless that new-fangled court at Charlestown, that they call the
Court of Seekerstations, has made them null and void—as they
have been making the estates of better gentleman than they could
ever pretend to be; taking all the best lands, you see, Allen, to
themselves, the cursed iniquiters!”

“Where did you come from with this gentleman?”

“A long way off, Mr. Musgrove—from old Virginny—but
lastly from Wat Adair's.”

“Wat's wife is a relation of my family.”

“Then he is a filthy disgrace to all who claim kin with him,
Allen Musgrove. Wat was the man who put us into the wild-cat's
claws—at least, so we had good reason to think. There was
a tidy spruce, and smart little wench there—tut, man—I am talking
of your own kith and kindred, for her name was Mary Musgrove.”

“Our girl!” said the dame with an animated emphasis; “our
own Mary; what of her, Mr. Horse Shoe Robinson?”

“That she is as good a child, Mistress Musgrove, as any honest
parent mought wish for. She got some sort of inkling of what
was contrived; and so she appeared to Major Butler in a dream—
or her ghost.”

“Mercy on us! the child has not been hurt?” cried the
mother.

“Ondoubtedly not, ma'am,” said Robinson; “but it is as true
as you are there, she gave us, somehow or other, a warning that
there was harm in the wind; and we took her advice, but it didn't
do.”

“I wish the child were home,” said Musgrove. “Christopher,

at day-light, boy, saddle a horse and be off to Adair's for
Mary.”

The nephew promised to do the errand.

“Come, Mr. Robinson, draw near the table and eat something.”

“With right good heart,” replied Horse Shoe; “but it's a kind
of camp rule with me, before I taste food—no matter where—just
to look after Captain Peter Clinch; that's my horse, friend Musgrove.
So, by your leave, I'll just go take a peep to see that the
Captain is sarved. A good beast is a sort of right arm in scrapish
times; and as God ha'n't given them the gift of speech, we must
speak for them.”

“Christopher shall save you the trouble,” replied Musgrove.

“A good horse never loses anything by the eye of his master,”
said Horse Shoe; “so, Christopher, I'll go with you.”

In a short time the sergeant returned into the house, and took
his seat at the table, where he fell to, at what was set before him,
with a laudable dispatch.

“How far off,” he inquired, “is the nearest Tory post, Mr. Musgrove?”

“Colonel Innis has some light corps stationed within two miles.
If you had been a little earlier you would have found some of
them at my mill.”

“Innis!” repeated Horse Shoe, “I thought Floyd had these
parts under command?”

“So he has,” replied the miller,” but he has lately joined the
garrison at Rocky Mount.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” ejaculated Robinson, “that's a pot into which
Sumpter will be dipping his ladle before long. All the land between
Wateree and Broad belongs to Tom Sumpter, let mad-cap
Tarleton do his best! We Whigs, Mr. Musgrove, have a little
touch of the hobgoblin in us. We travel pretty much where we
please. Now, I will tell you, friend, very plainly what I am after.
I don't mean to leave these parts till I see what is to become of
Major Butler. Innis and Floyd put together sha'n't hinder me
from looking after a man that's under my charge. I'm an old
sodger, and they can't make much out of me if they get me.”

“The country is swarming with troops of one kind or another,”

said the miller; “and a man must have his wits about him who
would get through it. You are now, Mr. Robinson, in a very dangerous
quarter. The fort at Ninety-Six on one side of you, and
Rocky Mount and Hanging Rock on the other—the road between
the three is full of loyalists. Colonel Innis is here to keep the
passage open, and, almost hourly, his men are passing. You
should be careful in showing yourself in daylight. And as for
your poor friend, Major Butler, there is not likely to be much good
will shown towards him. I greatly fear his case is worse than it
seems to you.”

“There is somewhere,” said Robinson, “in that book that lies
open on the table—which I take to be the Bible—the story of the
campaigns of King David; and as I have hearn it read by the
preacher, it tells how David was pushed on all sides by flying
corps of the enemy, and that, seeing he had no sword, he came
across a man who gave him victuals and the sword of Goliath—as
I got my dinner and a sword this morning from the tavern-keeper
at Blackstock's; and then he set off on his flight to some strange
place, where he feigned himself crazy and scrabbled at the gate,
and let the spit run down on his beard—as I have done before now
with Tarleton, Mr. Musgrove; and then King David took into a
cave—which I shouldn't stand much upon doing if there was
occasion; and there the King waited, until he got friends about
him and was able to drub the Philistians for robbing the threshing-floors—as
I make no doubt these Tories have robbed yours, Allen
Musgrove. But you know all about it, seeing that you are able to
read, which I am not. Now, I don't pretend to say that I nor
Major Butler are as good men as David—not at all; but the cause
of liberty is as good a cause as ever King David fought for, and
the Lord that took his side in the cave, will take the side of the
Whigs, sooner or later, and help them to beat these grinding,
thieving, burning, and throat-cutting Tories. And, moreover, a
brave man ought never to be cast down by such vermin; that's
my religion Mr. Musgrove, though you mought hardly expect to
find much thought of such things left in a rough fellow like me,
that's been hammered in these here wars like an old piece of iron
that's been one while a plough coulter, and after that a gun-barrel,
and finally that's been run up with others into a piece of ordnance

—not to say that it moughtn't have been a horse shoe in some
part of its life, ha! ha! ha! There's not likely to be much conscience
or religion left after all that hammering.”

“`He shall keep the simple folk by their right,”' said Musgrove,
quoting a passage from the Psalms, “`defend the children of the
poor and punish the wrong-doer.' You have finished your supper,
Mr. Robinson,” he continued, “and before we retire to rest you
will join us in the conclusion of our family worship, which was
interrupted by your coming into the house. We will sing a Psalm
which has been given to us by that man whose deliverance has
taught you where you are to look for yours.”

“If I cannot help to make music, Allen,” said Horse Shoe, “I
can listen with good will.”

The miller now produced a little book in black-letter, containing
a familiar and ancient version of the Psalms, and the following
quaint and simple lines were read by him in successive couplets,
the whole family singing each distich as soon as it was given out
—not excepting Horse Shoe, who, after the first couplet, having
acquired some slight perception of the tune, chimed in with a
voice that might have alarmed the sentinels of Innis's camp:

When this act of devotion was concluded the old man invoked
a blessing upon his household, and gave his orders that the family
should betake themselves to rest. Horse Shoe had already taken
up his sword and was about retiring to a chamber, under the
guidance of Christopher Shaw, when the door was suddenly thrown
wide open, and in rushed Mary Musgrove. She ran up, threw herself
into her father's arms, and cried out—

“Oh, how glad I am that I have reached home to-night!” then
kissing both of her parents, she flung herself into a chair, saying
—“I am tired—very tired. I have ridden the livelong day, alone,
and frightened out of my wits.”

“Not alone, my daughter!—on that weary road, and the country
so troubled with ill-governed men! Why did you venture,
girl? Did you not think I would send your cousin Christopher
for you?”

“Oh, father,” replied Mary, “there have been such doings! Ah!
and here is Mr. Horse Shoe Robinson; Major Butler, where is he,
sir?” she exclaimed, turning to the sergeant, who had now
approached the back of her chair to offer his hand.

“Blessings on you for a wise and a brave girl!” said Robinson.
“But it wouldn't do; we were ambushed, and the Major is still a
prisoner.”

“I feared it,” said Mary, “and therefore I stole away. They are
bloody-minded and wicked, father; and uncle Adair's house has
been the place where mischief and murder has been talked of.
Oh, I am very sick! I have had such a ride!”

“Poor wench!” said the father, taking her to his bosom. “You
have not the temper nor the strength to struggle where ruthless
men take up their weapons of war. What has befallen? Tell us
all!”

“No, no!” interposed the mother; “no, Allen, not now. The
girl must have food and sleep, and must not be wearied with questions
to-night. Wait, my dear Mary, until to-morrow. She will
tell us everything to-morrow.”

“I must hear of Major Butler,” said Mary; “I cannot sleep
until I have heard all that has happened. Good Mr. Robinson,
tell me everything.”

In few words the sergeant unfolded to the damsel the eventful
history of the last two days, during the narrative of which her
cheek waxed pale, her strength failed her, and she sank almost
lifeless across her father's knee.

“Give me some water,” she said. “My long ride has worn me
out. I ran off at daylight this morning, and have not stopped
once upon the road.”

A glass of milk with a slice of bread restored the maiden to her
strength, and she took the first opportunity to inform the circle
who surrounded her of all the incidents that had fallen under her
observation at Adair's.

Her father listened with deep emotion to the tale, and during its
relation clenched his teeth with anger, as he walked, to and fro,
through the apartment. There was an earnest struggle in his
feelings to withhold the expression of the strong execration, which
the narrative brought almost to his lips, against the perfidy of his
wife's kinsman. But the habitual control of his temper, which his
religious habits inculcated, kept him silent; and considerations of
prudence again swayed him from surrendering to the impulse,
which would have led him to declare himself openly against the
cause of the royal government and its supporters in the district
where he lived. He cross-questioned his daughter as to many
minute points of her story, but her answers were uniform and consistent,
and were stamped with the most unequivocal proofs of her
strict veracity. Indeed, the collateral evidences furnished by
Robinson, left no doubt on the miller's mind that the whole of
Mary's disclosures were the testimony of a witness whose senses
could not have been disturbed by illusions, nor distempered by
fear.

“It is a dreadful tale,” he said, “and we must think over it more
maturely. Be of good heart, my daughter, you have acted well
and wisely; God will protect us from harm.”

“And so it was no ghost, nor spirit,” said Horse Shoe, “that the
major saw in the night? But I wonder you didn't think of waking
me. A word to me in the night—seeing I have sarved a good

deal on outposts, and have got used to being called up—would
have had me stirring in a wink. But that's part of Wat's luck,
for I should most ondoubtedly have strangled the snake in his
bed.”

“I called you,” said Mary, “as loudly as I durst, and more than
once, but you slept so hard!”

“That's like me too,” replied Horse Shoe. “I'm both sleepy
and watchful, according as I think there is need of my sarvices.”

“Now to bed, my child,” said Musgrove. “Your bed is the
fittest place for your wearied body. God bless you, daughter!”

Once more the family broke up, and as Robinson left the room
Mary followed him to the foot of the little stair that wound up into
an attic chamber; here she detained him one moment, while she
communicated to him in a half whisper,

“I have a friend, Mr. Robinson, that might help you to do
something for Major Butler. His name is John Ramsay: he
belongs to General Sumpter's brigade. If you would go to his
father's, only six miles from here, on the upper road to Ninety-Six,
you might hear where John was. But, may be, you are afraid to
go so near to the fort?”

“May be so,” said Robinson, with a look of comic incredulity.
“I know the place, and I know the family, and, likely, John himself.
It's a good thought, Mary, for I want help now, more than I
ever did in my life. I'll start before daylight—for it won't do to
let the sun shine upon me, with Innis's Tories so nigh. So, if I
am missed to-morrow morning, let your father know how I come
to be away.”

“Tell John,” said Mary, “I sent you to him. Mary Musgrove,
remember.”

“If I can't find John,” replied Horse Shoe, “you're such a
staunch little petticoat sodger, that I'll, perhaps, come back and
enlist you. 'Tisn't everywhere that we can find such valiant
wenches. I wish some of our men had a little of your courage;
so, good night!”

The maiden now returned to the parlor, and Horse Shoe, under
the guidance of Christopher Shaw, found a comfortable place of
deposit for his hard-worked, though—as he would have Christopher
believe—his unfatigued frame. The sergeant, however, was a man

not born to cares, notwithstanding that his troubles were “as thick
as the sparks that fly upward,” and it is a trivial fact in his history,
that, on the present occasion, he was not many seconds in bed
before he was as sound asleep as the trapped partridges, in the
fairy tale, which, the eastern chronicle records, fell into a deep
sleep when roasting upon the spit, and did not wake for a hundred
years.