“Blasphemer! He will not help the craven. Gird yourself.”
“I'll call Mr. George.”
“Refrain. I will attend to that. Gird yourself. Take the musket from the hall. It is loaded. Patrol!”
“I don't want the musket.”
“Be not overbold. Outside you may be at their mercy.”
“Outside!”
“Assuredly.”
“Me patrol outside!”
“That is your task. Forward!”
By now Mr. Marrapit had risen; swathed himself in a dressing-gown. Sternly he addressed Mr. Fletcher: “As you this night quit yourself so will I consider the question of your dismissal. If blood is spilt this night it will be upon your head.”