He saw his country, so he believed, sinking into a dropsical coma before his eyes, just for want of somebody to kick it awake; and the sight made him sick and fearful.
Often riding with his daughter of evenings after the day's work he would pause a moment beside the flag-staff on Beau-nez and look North East across the waste of sea dull or shining at his feet.
"Can you hear him growling, Bess?" he asked his companion once.
"Who?"
"The Brute."
Bess knew her father's ogre, and the common talk.
"Is Germany the Brute?" she asked.
Her father shook his head.
"One of them," he answered. "Wherever Man is there the Brute is—keep that in mind when you're married, my dear. And he's always sleeping after a gorge or ravenous before one. Our Brute's asleep now he's got his belly full. Theirs"—nodding across the water—"is prowling for his prey."
To Mr. Pigott he confided his belief that there was only one thing that could save England.