“Stay here, then. I will be back in ten minutes.”
In less than that time, the good old Squire returned, puffing and panting, with a great bunch of flowers, and a small shaving-glass.
“There,” said he, putting them down; “now keep perfectly quiet; avoid making any undue noise, and on no account descend the stairs, till I come for you again.”
“But when will that be?” asked Israel.
“I will try to come twice each day while you are here. But there is no knowing what may happen. If I should not visit you till I come to liberate you—on the evening of the second day, or the morning of the third—you must not be at all surprised, my good fellow. There is plenty of food-and water to last you. But mind, on no account descend the stone-stairs till I come for you.”
With that, bidding his guest adieu, he left him.
Israel stood glancing pensively around for a time. By and by, moving the rolled mattress under the two air-slits, he mounted, to try if aught were visible beyond. But nothing was to be seen but a very thin slice of blue sky peeping through the lofty foliage of a great tree planted near the side-portal of the mansion; an ancient tree, coeval with the ancient dwelling it guarded.
Sitting down on the Mattress, Israel fell into a reverie.
“Poverty and liberty, or plenty and a prison, seem to be the two horns of the constant dilemma of my life,” thought he. “Let’s look at the prisoner.”
And taking up the shaving-glass, he surveyed his lineaments.