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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

"St. Ives, Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England"

I remembered that I
was in the hands of Fenn, who could not be more false--though he
might be more vindictive--than I fancied him. I looked forward to
nights of pitching in the covered cart, and days of monotony in I
knew not what hiding-places; and my heart failed me, and I was in
two minds whether to slink off ere it was too late, and return to
my former solitary way of travel. But the Colonel stood in the
path. I had not seen much of him; but already I judged him a man
of a childlike nature--with that sort of innocence and courtesy
that, I think, is only to be found in old soldiers or old priests--
and broken with years and sorrow. I could not turn my back on his
distress; could not leave him alone with the selfish trooper who
snored on the next mattress. 'Champdivers, my lad, your health!'
said a voice in my ear, and stopped me--and there are few things I
am more glad of in the retrospect than that it did.
It must have been about four in the afternoon--at least the rain
had taken off, and the sun was setting with some wintry pomp--when
the current of my reflections was effectually changed by the
arrival of two visitors in a gig. They were farmers of the
neighbourhood, I suppose--big, burly fellows in great-coats and
top-boots, mightily flushed with liquor when they arrived, and,
before they left, inimitably drunk.


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