e, young man, no offence," said the landlord in a quite altered
tone; "but the sight of your hand--." Then observing that our
conversation began to attract the notice of the guests in the kitchen, he
interrupted himself saying in an undertone, "But mum's the word for the
present; I will go and fetch the ale."

In about a minute he returned, with a jug of ale foaming high. "Here's
your health," said he, blowing off the foam and drinking; but perceiving
that I looked rather dissatisfied, he murmured, "All's right--I glory in
you; but mum's the word." Then placing the jug on the table, he gave me
a confidential nod, and swaggered out of the room.

What can the silly impertinent fellow mean? thought I; but the ale was
now before me, and I hastened to drink, for my weakness was great, and my
mind was full of dark thoughts, the remains of the indescribable horror
of the preceding night. It may kill me, thought I, as I drank deep; but
who cares? anything is better than what I have suffered. I drank deep,
and then leaned back against the wall; it appeared as if a vapour was
stealing up into my brain, gentle and benign, soothing and stilling the
horror and the fear; higher and higher it mounted, and I felt nearly
overcome; but the sensation was delicious, compared with that I had
lately experienced, and now I felt myself nodding; and, bending down, I
laid my head on the table on my folded hands.

And in that attitude I remained some time, perfectly unconscious. At
length, by degrees, perception returned, and I lifted up my head. I felt
somewhat dizzy and bewildered, but the dark shadow had withdrawn itself
from me. And now, once more, I drank of the jug; this second draught did
not produce an overpowering effect upon me--it revived and strengthened
me--I felt a new man.

I looked around me: the kitchen had been deserted by the greater part of
the guests; besides myself, only four remained; these were seated at the
farther end. One was haranguing fiercely and eagerly; he was abusing
England, and praising America. At last he exclaimed, "So when I gets to
New York, I will toss up my hat, and damn the King."

That man must be a radical, thought I.

CHAPTER VII.--A DISCIPLE OF WILLIAM COBBETT--THE SCHOLAR ENCOUNTERS THE
PRIEST.

The individual whom I supposed to be a radical, after a short pause,
again uplifted his voice; he was rather a strong-built fellow of about
thirty, with an ill-favoured countenance, a