The governor’s daughter was nonplussed; she knew what publicans were. She had lived in London where there is at least one in every street—inhabiting its most conspicuous house. But a whole nation of them?
“All publicans!” she exclaimed, in surprise. “Come, Sabby, you’re telling me a story.”
“’Deed no, Miss Blanche. Sabby tell you de truth. True as gospels, ebbery one of dese ’Merican people are ’publicans.”
“Who drinks it then?”
“Drink what?”
“Why, what they sell! The wine, and the beer, and the gin. In London they don’t have anything else—the publicans don’t.”
“Oh! now I comprehend you, missy. I see you no me unerstan’, chile. I no mean dat sort as sell de drink. Totally different aldegidder. Dere am republicans as doan believe in kings and kweens—not even in our good Victorie. Dey believe only in de common people dat’s bad and wicked.”
“Stuff, Sabby! I’m sure you must be mistaken. That young man isn’t wicked. At least he doesn’t look so; and they believe in him. You saw how they all honoured him; and though it does seem bold for those girls to have kissed him, I think I would have done so myself. He looked so proud, so beautiful, so good! He’s ten times prettier than the prince I saw in London. That he is!”
“Hush up, chile! Doan let your fader, de royal gov’nor, hear you talk dat way. He boun’ be angry. I know he doan favour dem ’publicans, and woan like you praise ’em. He hate ’em like pisen snake.”
Blanche made no rejoinder. She had not even listened to the sage caution. Her ears had become closed to the speeches of Sabina at sight of a man who was at that moment ascending the stair.