Eaton for the war desk was known now to all, and, verbally at least, acquiesced in. Noah's slicing work with his Spanish sword had been whispered industriously; scores went up to gaze on the broad blotches of dull red where the rogue Catron's blood had spread like paint; the arm wide open from wrist to should der-joint—a very gutter of a wound!—was dilated upon; and the result appeared in a wholesome caution on the conversational parts of our enemies. Noah was still in town; and no male at least came reckless enough to court the fate of Catron. Besides, the buzz and talk of a new administration scraping its feet at the door and lifting the latch of events would occupy the public mouth, and mention of Peg, whether for good or bad, was crowded out of it. The future would have been the better for peace had these conditions secured a longer maintenance.
Among others, that Reverend Doctor Ely, for whom the equally Reverend Campbell and the magpie one aforetime came upon the carpet, broke rapturously into town. I say “broke,” since as a term it may best depict the effusiveness of that descent upon the General. Twenty years before, this Ely had met the General; their acquaintance had been as attenuated as it might be and still bear up the name; and with that slender capital the hopeful Doctor was present to make the most it.
Surely, I met the reverend man. He was a bald, brisk, worldly personage, with a most noble appetite for the flesh-pots. He carefully sustained himself the hypocrite in that last behalf, however, and to folk casual he offered nothing beyond an appearance fervently religious. While with us, he held forth in sundry local pulpits, and although I heard him not myself, he was warmly eulogized by pious critics who knew what sermons should be.
The worthy Doctor with a view to Florida dangled about the General. The Reverend Campbell, and the magpie one, dangled about the worthy Doctor. They were made to see, with the very finish of it, however, that by no accident of concession would the General place their man, Westfall, in the van of Florida affairs to set up mimic thrones in the Governor's Palace of St. Augustine.
The news was a blow to them; and the urgent trio were no Stoics to be capable of excluding from their brows the chagrin they felt. They no longer harrassed the General, however, which, when now a score of duties pulled at him like horses, was no small desideratum.
Presumably as a last ditch wherein to perish, the Reverend Doctor Ely came to me. I was no favorite of his, nor he of mine. To me he was not a precious metal. Polished? yes—and yet only to remind one of brass. He was, as I have said, of fashionable model; fond of his burgundy, and his canvas-back; garbed fastidiously and in the mode; precisely that character the General so accurately read those years before when he suspected him as one less concerned for the fit of his conscience than the fit of his coat.
When the Reverend Doctor encountered me, I cut him short. To do this, let me tell you, I took my courage in my hands, for it is no child's play to thwart a dominie.
“You are one who holds fast for the doctrine of foreordination?” I asked this like a catechist at his questions.
“I am,” returned the Reverend Doctor.
“And you believe that many are called while few are chosen?”