God forgive me! the horrible fellow was still puffing and panting with the fury of his assault, and already he had fallen into an obsequious, wheedling familiarity like that of an old servant,—­ already he was flattering me on my family connections!

I followed him through the house into the stable-yard, where I observed the driver washing the cart in a shed.  He must have heard the explosion of the pistol.  He could not choose but hear it:  the thing was shaped like a little blunderbuss, charged to the mouth, and made a report like a piece of field artillery.  He had heard, he had paid no attention; and now, as we came forth by the back-door, he raised for a moment a pale and tell-tale face that was as direct as a confession.  The rascal had expected to see Fenn come forth alone; he was waiting to be called on for that part of sexton, which I had already allotted to him in fancy.

I need not detain the reader very long with any description of my visit to the back-kitchen; of how we mulled our ale there, and mulled it very well; nor of how we sat talking, Fenn like an old, faithful, affectionate dependant, and I—­well!  I myself fallen into a mere admiration of so much impudence, that transcended words, and had very soon conquered animosity.  I took a fancy to the man, he was so vast a humbug.  I began to see a kind of beauty in him, his aplomb was so majestic.  I never knew a rogue to cut so fat; his villainy was ample, like his belly, and I could scarce find it in my heart to hold him responsible for either.  He was good enough to drop into the autobiographical; telling me how the farm, in spite of the war and the high prices, had proved a disappointment; how there was ’a sight of cold, wet land as you come along the ‘igh-road’; how the winds and rains and the seasons had been misdirected, it seemed ‘o’ purpose’; how Mrs. Fenn had died—­’I lost her coming two year agone; a remarkable fine woman, my old girl, sir! if you’ll excuse me,’ he added, with a burst of humility.  In short, he gave me an opportunity of studying John Bull, as I may say, stuffed naked—­his greed, his usuriousness, his hypocrisy, his perfidy of the back-stairs, all swelled to the superlative—­such as was well worth the little disarray and fluster of our passage in the hall.

CHAPTER XIII—­I MEET TWO OF MY COUNTRYMEN

As soon as I judged it safe, and that was not before Burchell Fenn had talked himself back into his breath and a complete good humour, I proposed he should introduce me to the French officers, henceforth to become my fellow-passengers.  There were two of them, it appeared, and my heart beat as I approached the door.  The specimen of Perfidious Albion whom I had just been studying gave me the stronger zest for my fellow-countrymen.  I could have embraced them; I could have wept on their necks.  And all the time I was going to a disappointment.