“Men! they are not men!” returned the excited old lady, refusing to be comforted. “Men never would have treated ladies so. They are base, cruel, inhuman wretches, and, as I said before, if I live, to get to Jamestown, Colonel Temple shall know of it too—so he shall.” “But reflect, my dear friend, that our present condition is not affected by this very natural resolution which you have made, to inform your husband of your wrongs. But whatever may be the object of these persons, I feel assured that they intend no personal injury to us.” “No personal injury, forsooth; and have we not sustained it already. Look at my head-tire, all done up nicely just before I left the hall, and now scarcely fit to be seen. And is it nothing to be hauled all over the country with a party of ruffians, that I would be ashamed to be caught in company with; and who knows what they intend?” “I admit with you, my dear madam,” said Mrs. Ballard, “that such conduct is unmanly and inexcusable, and I care not who hears me say so. But still,” she added in a low voice, “we have the authority of scripture to make friends even of the mammon of unrighteousness.” “Friends! I would die first. I who have been moving in the first circles, the wife of Colonel Temple, who, if he had chosen, might have been the greatest in the land, to make friends with a party of mean, sneaking, cowardly ruffians. Never—and I'll speak my mind freely too—they shall see that I have a woman's tongue in my head and know how to resent these injuries. Oh, for shame! and to wear swords too, which used to be the badge of gentlemen and cavaliers, who would rather have died than wrong a poor, weak, defenceless woman—much less to rob and murder her.” “Well, let us hope for the best, my friend,” said Mrs. Ballard; “God knows I feel as you do, that we have been grossly wronged; but let us remember that we are in the hands of a just and merciful Providence, who will do with us according to his holy will.” “I only know that we are in the hands of a parcel of impious and merciless wretches,” cried the old lady, who, as we have seen on a former occasion, derived but little comfort from the consolations of religion in the hour of trial. “I hope I have as much religion as my fellows, who pretend to so much more—but I should like to know what effect that would have on a band of lawless cut-throats?” “He has given us his holy promise,” said Virginia, in a solemn, yet hopeful voice of resignation, “that though we walk through the valley and the shadow of death, he will be with us—his rod and his staff will comfort us—yea, he prepareth a table for us in the presence of our enemies, our cup runneth over.”