“Come,” said Vance, “we must eat. My way of life has compelled me to suffer no excitement to impair my appetite. Indeed, I have passed through the one supreme excitement, after which all others, even the prospect of immediate death, are quite tame. Happy the man, Mr. Winslow, who can say, I cling to this life no longer for myself, but for others and for humanity!” “Such a sentiment would better become a man of my age than of yours,” replied Winslow. “Here’s the dinner,” said Vance. “Now let us talk nothing but nonsense. Let us think of nothing that requires the effort of a serious thought.” “Well then,” replied Winslow. “Suppose we discuss the last number of De Bow’s Review, or that charlatan Maury’s last lying letter in the London Times.” “Excellent!” said Vance. “For reaching the very sublime of the superficial, commend me to De Bow or to the Chevalier Maury.” Before the dinner was over, each man felt that the day had not been unprofitable, since he had earned a friend. CHAPTER XXXIV. LIGHT FROM THE PIT. “There’s not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee; thou hast great allies; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and Man’s unconquerable mind.”—_Wordsworth._ Kenrick found Onslow seated at one of the tables of the large dining-hall and expecting his coming. The chair on his right was tipped over on its fore legs against the table as a signal that the seat was engaged. On Onslow’s left sat the scoffer, Robson. As Kenrick advanced, Onslow rose, took him by the hand, and placed him in the reserved seat. Robson bowed, and filled three glasses with claret. “But how grave and pale you look, Charles!” said Onslow. “What the deuce is the matter? Come on! _Absit atra cura!_ Begone, dull care! Toss off that glass of claret, or Robson will scorn you as a skulker.” “The wine is not bad,” said Robson, “but there should have been ice in the cooler. May the universal Yankee nation be eternally and immitigably consigned to perdition for depriving us of our ice. Every time I am thirsty,—and that is fifty times a day,—my temper is tried, and I wish I had a plenipotentiary power of cursing. With the thermometer at ninety, ’t is a lie to say Cotton is king. Ice is king. The glory of our juleps has departed. For my own part, I would grovel at old Abe’s feet if he would give us ice.” Kenrick could not force a smile. He touched his lips with the claret. “You will take soup?” inquired Onslow. “It is tomato, and very good.” “What you please, I’m not hungry.” Onslow ordered the servant to bring a plate of soup. Kenrick stirred it a moment, tasted, then pushed it from him. Its color reminded him of the precious blood, dear to his friend, which had been so ruthlessly shed. “A plate of pompinoe,” said Onslow. The dainty fish was put before Kenrick, and he broke it into morsels with his fork, then told the servant to take it away.