me hectoring and heroing over us, and
Heliogabalising, with our pretty sisters to cook for them, and be
chucked under chin perhaps afterwards? There is nothing England hates
so much, according to my sense of it, as that fellows taken from
plough-tail, cart-tail, pot-houses and parish-stocks, should be hoisted
and foisted upon us (after a few months' drilling, and their lying
shaped into truckling) as defenders of the public weal, and heroes of
the universe.

In another way I was vexed, moreover--for after all we must consider the
opinions of our neighbours--namely, that I knew quite well how everybody
for ten miles round (for my fame must have been at least that wide,
after all my wrestling), would lift up hands and cry out thus--'Black
shame on John Ridd, if he lets them go without him!'

Putting all these things together, as well as many others, which our
own wits will suggest to you, it is impossible but what you will freely
acknowledge that this unfortunate John Ridd was now in a cloven stick.
There was Lorna, my love and life, bound by her duty to that old
vil--nay, I mean to her good grandfather, who could now do little
mischief, and therefore deserved all praise--Lorna bound, at any rate,
by her womanly feelings, if not by sense of duty, to remain in the thick
danger, with nobody to protect her, but everybody to covet her, for
beauty and position. Here was all the country roused with violent
excitement, at the chance of snapping at the Doones; and not only
getting tit for tat; but every young man promising his sweetheart a
gold chain, and his mother at least a shilling. And here was our own
mow-yard, better filled than we could remember, and perhaps every sheaf
in it destined to be burned or stolen, before we had finished the bread
we had baked.

Among all these troubles, there was, however, or seemed to be, one
comfort. Tom Faggus returned from London very proudly and very happily,
with a royal pardon in black and white, which everybody admired the
more, because no one could read a word of it. The Squire himself
acknowledged cheerfully that he could sooner take fifty purses than read
a single line of it. Some people indeed went so far as to say that the
parchment was made from a sheep Tom had stolen, and that was why it
prevaricated so in giving him a character. But I, knowing something by
this time, of lawyers, was able to contradict them; affirming that the
wolf had more than the sheep to do with this matte