“Has the great spider devoured the small one?”
“No, sir,” said the boy, colouring; “the small one has had the best of it.”
The tone and heightened complexion of the child seemed to give meaning to his words,—at least, so the man thought, for a slight frown passed over his high, thoughtful brow.
“Spiders, then,” he said, after a short pause, “are different from men; with us, the small do not get the better of the great. Hum! do you still miss your mother?”
“Oh, yes!” and the boy advanced eagerly to the table.
“Well, you will see her once again.”
“When?”
The man looked towards a clock on the mantelpiece,—“Before that clock strikes. Now, go back to your spiders.” The child looked irresolute and disinclined to obey; but a stern and terrible expression gathered slowly over the man’s face, and the boy, growing pale as he remarked it, crept back to the window.
The father—for such was the relation the owner of the room bore to the child—drew paper and ink towards him, and wrote for some minutes rapidly. Then starting up, he glanced at the clock, took his hat and cloak, which lay on a chair beside, drew up the collar of the mantle till it almost concealed his countenance, and said, “Now, boy, come with me; I have promised to show you an execution: I am going to keep my promise. Come!”
The boy clapped his hands with joy; and you might see then, child as he was, that those fair features were capable of a cruel and ferocious expression. The character of the whole face changed. He caught up his gay cap and plume, and followed his father into the streets.