Paul Clifford — Volume 06Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
General
Paul Clifford — Volume 06
Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
Brigands and robbers -- Fiction
Clifford did not answer, and the conversation made a sudden and long
pause; Tomlinson broke it.
"Do you know, Lovett," said he, "though I have as little heart as most
men, yet I feel for you more than I could have thought it possible.
I would fain join you; there is devilish good tobacco in Germany,
I believe; and, after all, there is not so much difference between
the life of a thief and of a soldier."
"Do profit by so sensible a remark," said Clifford. "Reflect! how
certain of destruction is the path you now tread; the gallows and the
hulks are the only goals!"
"The prospects are not pleasing, I allow," said Tomlinson; "nor is it
desirable to be preserved for another century in the immortality of a
glass case in Surgeons' Hall, grinning from ear to ear, as if one had
made the merriest finale imaginable. Well! I will sleep on it, and you
shall have my answer tomorrow; but poor Ned?"
"Would he not join us?"
"Certainly not; his neck is made for a rope, and his mind for the Old
Bailey. There is no hope for him; yet he is an excellent fellow. We
must not even tell him of our meditated desertion."
"By no means. I shall leave a letter to our London chief; it will
explain all. And now to bed. I look to your companionship as settled."
"Humph!" said Augustus Tomlinson.
So ended the conference of the robbers. About an hour after it had
ceased, and when no sound save the heavy breath of Long Ned broke the
stillness of the night, the intelligent countenance of Peter MacGrawler
slowly elevated itself from the lonely pillow on which it had reclined.
By degrees the back of the sage stiffened into perpendicularity, and he
sat for a few moments erect on his seat of honour, apparently in
listening deliberation. Satisfied with the deep silence that, save the
solitary interruption we have specified, reigned around, the learned
disciple of Vatel rose gently from the bed, hurried on his clothes, stole
on tiptoe to the door, unbarred it with a noiseless hand, and vanished.
Sweet reader! while thou art wondering at his absence, suppose we account
for his appearance.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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