(“Oh—that Doctor Stubbs would make a morning call!” silently prayed the wife.)
“I shall turn all—all into fighting men. And such men! Ha! ha! they are never killed; no—no; they multiply. Yes—yes”—and Jericho bent his head, and joined his hands, “they increase and multiply.”—
(“He shall not be left alone,” determined Mrs. Jericho, with a shiver.)
“And these millions of fighting men are men with the royal stamp upon ’em, Mrs. Jericho; men who sing a continual chorus Dei gratia; men, who it may be, kill—kill upon fields of parchment: kill dead, dead as the sheep that carried the skin,—what then? all’s clean and clear, not a drop of blood.”
“No. Oh, no; not a drop”—said Mrs. Jericho. Poor bewildered woman! What could she say?
“Now, when I make myself the general of these two millions of golden men, I send them out—some on one campaign—some on another. Some to do service for young heirs, and eat ’em afterwards. Well, they return to me. They come home, bringing prisoners; other golden captives. Every soldier his one, or two, or three soldiers. Eh?”
“Yes, love; of course,” assented Mrs. Jericho.
“And therefore, madam,” cried Jericho with ferocity—“therefore, we will have no more of this trumpery to waste upon others. No: I will have the power—the power in my own hands. I will have my fighting millions of good gold pieces; and—though we live in a hovel, and all of us wear sackcloth, as we all shall”—
“To be sure, my dear,” said Mrs. Jericho, and—she could not help it—she thought of a strait-waistcoat.
“Why, even then, when folks point at me, crawling about in outside beggary—even then the world shall acknowledge me to be greater than Cæsar, with all his legions.”