"Every coin gained by days and nights of work—hard work," he said. "It has taken me three years to save that sum. When I thought of Alice as a wife, this little hoard, (such was my fancy,) might enable me to furnish a good home. Do you understand me, sir? You who receive five thousand dollars per year for preaching the gospel of your church, can you comprehend how precious is this fortune of one hundred dollars, to a poor workman, who earns his bread by sitting in a cramped position, fourteen hours a day, making shoes?"
"Well, what have I to do with this money?"
"You comprehend that these ten gold pieces are as much to me, as a ten hundred would be to you? These gold pieces will buy books which I earnestly desire; they will help me to relieve a brother workman who happens to be poorer than myself; they will help me to go to the far west, where there is land and home for all. Well, this fortune, I have dedicated to one purpose: To support me, here in New York, on bread and water, until I can discover the hiding-place of Alice Burney, and meet her seducer face to face. How long do you think my gold will furnish me with bread, while I devote day and night to this purpose?"
The iron resolution of the young man's face, made the clergyman feel afraid.
"You will remark," he exclaimed, stretching himself in his chair, and contemplating the whiteness of his nails, "that a witness of our conversation might infer, from the tenor of your discourse, that you have an idea—an idea—" he hesitated, "that I have something to do with the abduction of this young lady. Doubtless you do not mean to convey this impression, and therefore I will thank you to correct the tone of your remarks."
Herman was quite lordly.
"Then you know nothing of the retreat of Alice Burney?"
"The question is an insult—"
"Nothing of her seducer?"
"I repeat it; the question is an insult," and Herman started up in his chair, with flashing eyes and corrugated brow.