As he said this, he took a penknife from his pocket, and putting his hat upon his knee, began to busy himself in ripping off the blue cockade which he had worn all day; at the same time humming a psalm tune which had been very popular in the morning, and dwelling on it with a gentle regret.
His two adherents looked at each other, and at him, as if they were at a loss how to pursue the subject. At length Hugh, after some elbowing and winking between himself and Mr. Dennis, ventured to stay his hand, and to ask him why he meddled with that ribbon in his hat.
“Because,” said the secretary, looking up with something between a snarl and a smile; “because to sit still and wear it, or to fall asleep and wear it, is a mockery. That’s all, friend.”
“What would you have us do, master!” cried Hugh.
“Nothing,” returned Gashford, shrugging his shoulders, “nothing. When my lord was reproached and threatened for standing by you, I, as a prudent man, would have had you do nothing. When the soldiers were trampling you under their horses’ feet, I would have had you do nothing. When one of them was struck down by a daring hand, and I saw confusion and dismay in all their faces, I would have had you do nothing—just what you did, in short. This is the young man who had so little prudence and so much boldness. Ah! I am sorry for him.”
“Sorry, master!” cried Hugh.
“Sorry, Muster Gashford!” echoed Dennis.
“In case there should be a proclamation out tomorrow, offering five hundred pounds, or some such trifle, for his apprehension; and in case it should include another man who dropped into the lobby from the stairs above,” said Gashford, coldly; “still, do nothing.”
“Fire and fury, master!” cried Hugh, starting up. “What have we done, that you should talk to us like this!”
“Nothing,” returned Gashford with a sneer. “If you are cast into prison; if the young man—” here he looked hard at Barnaby’s attentive face—“is dragged from us and from his friends; perhaps from people whom he loves, and whom his death would kill; is thrown into jail, brought out and hanged before their eyes; still, do nothing. You’ll find it your best policy, I have no doubt.”
“Come on!” cried Hugh, striding towards the door. “Dennis—Barnaby—come on!”
“Where? To do what?” said Gashford, slipping past him, and standing with his back against it.
“Anywhere! Anything!” cried Hugh. “Stand aside, master, or the window will serve our turn as well. Let us out!”
“Ha ha ha! You are of such—of such an impetuous nature,” said Gashford, changing his manner for one of the utmost good fellowship and the pleasantest raillery; “you are such an excitable creature—but you’ll drink with me before you go?”
“Oh, yes—certainly,” growled Dennis, drawing his sleeve across his thirsty lips. “No malice, brother. Drink with Muster Gashford!”
Hugh wiped his heated brow, and relaxed into a smile. The artful secretary laughed outright.
“Some liquor here! Be quick, or he’ll not stop, even for that. He is a man of such desperate ardour!” said the smooth secretary, whom Mr. Dennis corroborated with sundry nods and muttered oaths—“Once roused, he is a fellow of such fierce determination!”
Hugh poised his sturdy arm aloft, and clapping Barnaby on the back, bade him fear nothing. They shook hands together—poor Barnaby evidently possessed with the idea that he was among the most virtuous and disinterested heroes in the world—and Gashford laughed again.
“I hear,” he said smoothly, as he stood among them with a great measure of liquor in his hand, and filled their glasses as quickly and as often as they chose, “I hear—but I cannot say whether it be true or false—that the men who are loitering in the streets tonight are half disposed to pull down a Romish chapel or two, and that they only want leaders. I even heard mention of those in Duke Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and in Warwick Street, Golden Square; but common report, you know—You are not going?”
—“To do nothing, master, eh?” cried Hugh. “No jails and halter for Barnaby and me. They must be frightened out of that. Leaders are wanted, are they? Now boys!”
“A most impetuous fellow!” cried the secretary. “Ha ha! A courageous, boisterous, most vehement fellow! A man who—”
There was no need to finish the sentence, for they had rushed out of the house, and were far beyond hearing. He stopped in the middle of a laugh, listened, drew on his gloves, and, clasping his hands behind him, paced the deserted room for a long time, then bent his steps towards the busy town, and walked into the streets.
They were filled with people, for the rumour of that day’s proceedings had made a great noise. Those persons who did not care to leave home, were at their doors or windows, and one topic of discourse prevailed on every side. Some reported that the riots were effectually put down; others that they had broken out again: some said that Lord George Gordon had been sent under a strong guard to the Tower; others that an attempt had been made upon the King’s life, that the soldiers had been again called out, and that the noise of musketry in a distant part of the town had been plainly heard within an hour. As it grew darker, these stories became more direful and mysterious; and often, when some frightened passenger ran past with tidings that the rioters were not far off, and were coming up, the doors were shut and barred, lower windows made secure, and as much consternation engendered, as if the city were invaded by a foreign army.
Gashford walked stealthily about, listening to all he heard, and diffusing or confirming, whenever he had an opportunity, such
