"Their vile French levity," answered her father. "Instead of being on their knees asking God to forgive 'em, they dance and sing."
Mr. Norcot shook his head, as though to imply he echoed Malherb's sentiments. Then he asked a question, but did not guess the storm it would awaken.
"And what about the American prisoners?"
"Curse 'em!" roared the farmer, like a sudden explosion of thunder. "Curse 'em living and dying, and, if I had my way, I'd hang the foul traitors—every man. Our own flesh and blood—a British Colony——"
"I'm afraid 'tis idle to dream that any more. The tea business. Never was such a shattering storm bred in a teacup before," answered Norcot. "A bad day for England——"
"Matricides, murderers, insolent democratical scoundrels!" cried the other. "My blood boils at the name. How is it that the Almighty has not sunk their stolen continent fathoms deep in the sea to cleanse it? Why are they allowed to live? Pirates—slave-driving, slave-hunting, slave-breeding pirates, and lynchers, and blackguards—self-constituted a Nation. A Nation! They make you believe in Hell against your will."
"They have more pluck and originality than the French, I am told," said Peter calmly. "They escape in a wonderful manner; they give the guards ceaseless trouble and anxiety."
"For why? They're bastard English. They've got our blood in their veins. 'Twill take a few generations yet ere it all runs into the sink and leaves nothing but mongrel. A poisoned race—a fallen race. Pride has ruined 'em; as it ruined the Devil, their dam. Hanging, drawing, quartering, I say! No honest man——"
"Come to dinner, Maurice," said Mrs. Malherb. "And don't thus rage before eating. 'Tis very bad for you. They are at least out of mischief now, poor creatures."
"Never," answered her husband. "An American is never out of mischief until he is dead."