- end_line
- 3030
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:05.590Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 2947
- text
- “Well, then, you say you want boquets and a mirror. If those articles
will at all help to solace your seclusion, I will bring them to you.”
“They really would be company; the sight of my own face particularly.”
“Stay here, then. I will be back in ten minutes.”
In less than that time, the good old Squire returned, puffing and
panting, with a great bunch of flowers, and a small shaving-glass.
“There,” said he, putting them down; “now keep perfectly quiet; avoid
making any undue noise, and on no account descend the stairs, till I
come for you again.”
“But when will that be?” asked Israel.
“I will try to come twice each day while you are here. But there is no
knowing what may happen. If I should not visit you till I come to
liberate you—on the evening of the second day, or the morning of the
third—you must not be at all surprised, my good fellow. There is plenty
of food-and water to last you. But mind, on no account descend the
stone-stairs till I come for you.”
With that, bidding his guest adieu, he left him.
Israel stood glancing pensively around for a time. By and by, moving
the rolled mattress under the two air-slits, he mounted, to try if
aught were visible beyond. But nothing was to be seen but a very thin
slice of blue sky peeping through the lofty foliage of a great tree
planted near the side-portal of the mansion; an ancient tree, coeval
with the ancient dwelling it guarded.
Sitting down on the Mattress, Israel fell into a reverie.
“Poverty and liberty, or plenty and a prison, seem to be the two horns
of the constant dilemma of my life,” thought he. “Let’s look at the
prisoner.”
And taking up the shaving-glass, he surveyed his lineaments.
“What a pity I didn’t think to ask for razors and soap. I want shaving
very badly. I shaved last in France. How it would pass the time here.
Had I a comb now and a razor, I might shave and curl my hair, and keep
making a continual toilet all through the two days, and look spruce as
a robin when I get out. I’ll ask the Squire for the things this very
night when he drops in. Hark! ain’t that a sort of rumbling in the
wall? I hope there ain’t any oven next door; if so, I shall be scorched
out. Here I am, just like a rat in the wainscot. I wish there was a low
window to look out of. I wonder what Doctor Franklin is doing now, and
Paul Jones? Hark! there’s a bird singing in the leaves. Bell for
dinner, that.”
And for pastime, he applied himself to the beef and bread, and took a
draught of the wine and water.
At last night fell. He was left in utter darkness. No Squire.
After an anxious, sleepless night, he saw two long flecks of pale gray
light slanting into the cell from the slits, like two long spears. He
rose, rolled up his mattress, got upon the roll, and put his mouth to
one of the griffins’ months. He gave a low, just audible whistle,
directing it towards the foliage of the tree. Presently there was a
slight rustling among the leaves, then one solitary chirrup, and in
three minutes a whole chorus of melody burst upon his ear.
“I’ve waked the first bird,” said he to himself, with a smile, “and
he’s waked all the rest. Now then for breakfast. That over, I dare say
the Squire will drop in.”
But the breakfast was over, and the two flecks of pale light had
changed to golden beams, and the golden beams grew less and less
slanting, till they straightened themselves up out of sight altogether.
It was noon, and no Squire.
“He’s gone a-hunting before breakfast, and got belated,” thought
Israel.
The afternoon shadows lengthened. It was sunset; no Squire.
“He must be very busy trying some sheep-stealer in the hall,” mused
Israel. “I hope he won’t forget all about me till to-morrow.”
He waited and listened; and listened and waited.
- title
- Chunk 4