“Only a slight spell, which I will take the freedom to repeat to Colonel Everard,” said Bletson; “but which would be as bad as Greek to thee, Desborough. Old Geoffrey lays the whole blame of our nocturnal disturbance on superfluity of humours,
‘Which causen folk to dred in their dreams
Of arrowes, and of fire with red gleams,
Right as the humour of melancholy
Causeth many a man in sleep to cry
For fear of great bulls and bears black,
And others that black devils will them take.’”
While he was thus declaiming, Everard observed a book sticking out from beneath the pillow of the bed lately occupied by the honourable member.
“Is that Chaucer?” he said, making to the volume; “I would like to look at the passage”—
“Chaucer?” said Bletson, hastening to interfere; “no—that is Lucretius, my darling Lucretius. I cannot let you see it; I have some private marks.”
But by this time Everard had the book in his hand. “Lucretius?” he said; “no, Master Bletson, this is not Lucretius, but a fitter comforter in dread or in danger—Why should you be ashamed of it? Only, Bletson, instead of resting your head, if you can but anchor your heart upon this volume, it may serve you in better stead than Lucretius or Chaucer either.”
“Why, what book is it?” said Bletson, his pale cheek colouring with the shame of detection. “Oh! the Bible!” throwing it down contemptuously; “some book of my fellow Gibeon’s; these Jews have been always superstitious—ever since Juvenal’s time, thou knowest—
“‘Qualiacunque voles Judæi somnia vendunt.’
“He left me the old book for a spell, I warrant you; for ’tis a well-meaning fool.”
“He would scarce have left the New Testament as well as the Old,” said Everard. “Come, my dear Bletson, do not be ashamed of the wisest thing you ever did in your life, supposing you took your Bible in an hour of apprehension, with a view to profit by the contents.”