| 318 | 319 | 320 | 321 | 322 |
| 1 | 133 | 265 | 398 | 530 |
|
paraded the roads, or clustered by torch-light round their leaders,
who told them, in stern language, of their wrongs, and urged them on
to frightful cries and threats; when maddened men, armed with sword
and firebrand, spurning the tears and prayers of women who would
restrain them, rushed forth on errands of terror and destruction, to
work no ruin half so surely as their own - night, when carts came
rumbling by, filled with rude coffins (for contagious disease and death
had been busy with the living crops); when orphans cried, and
distracted women shrieked and followed in their wake - night, when
some called for bread, and some for drink to drown their cares, and
some with tears, and some with staggering feet, and some with
bloodshot eyes, went brooding home - night, which, unlike the night
that Heaven sends on earth, brought with it no peace, nor quiet, nor
signs of blessed sleep - who shall tell the terrors of the night to the
young wandering child!
And yet she lay down, with nothing between her and the sky; and,
with no fear for herself, for she was past it now, put up a prayer for
the poor old man. So very weak and spent, she felt, so very calm and
unresisting, that she had no thought of any wants of her own, but
prayed that God would raise up some friend for him. She tried to
recall the way they had come, and to look in the direction where the
fire by which they had slept last night was burning. She had forgotten
to ask the name of the poor man, their friend, and when she had
remembered him in her prayers, it seemed ungrateful not to turn one
look towards the spot where he was watching.
A penny loaf was all they had had that day. It was very little, but even
hunger was forgotten in the strange tranquillity that crept over her
senses. She lay down, very gently, and, with a quiet smile upon her
face, fell into a slumber. It was not like sleep - and yet it must have
been, or why those pleasant dreams of the little scholar all night long!
Morning came. Much weaker, diminished powers even of sight and
hearing, and yet the child made no complaint - perhaps would have
made none, even if she had not had that inducement to be silent,
travelling by her side. She felt a hopelessness of their ever being
extricated together from that forlorn place; a dull conviction that she
was very ill, perhaps dying; but no fear or anxiety.
A loathing of food that she was not conscious of until they expended
their last penny in the purchase of another loaf, prevented her
partaking even of this poor repast. Her grandfather ate greedily, which
she was glad to see.
Their way lay through the same scenes as yesterday, with no variety
or improvement. There was the same thick air, difficult to breathe; the
same blighted ground, the same hopeless prospect, the same misery
and distress. Objects appeared more dim, the noise less, the path
Page
Quick Jump
|