Instead of admiring the good sense and steadiness of this little lad, Archer suffered Townsend to snatch the untasted bun out of his hands. He flung it at a hole in the window, but it fell back. The Archers scrambled for it, and Fisher ate it. Archer saw this, and was sensible that he had not done handsomely in suffering it. A few moments ago he had admired his own generosity, and though he had felt the injustice of others, he had not accused himself of any. He turned away from the little boy, and sitting down at one end of the table, hid his face in his hands. He continued immovable in this posture for some time. “Lord!” said Townsend; “it was an excellent joke!” “Pooh!” said Fisher; “what a fool, to think so much about a bun!” “Never mind, Mr. Archer, if you are thinking about me,” said the little boy, trying gently to pull his hands from his face. Archer stooped down, and lifted him up upon the table, at which sight the partisans set up a general hiss. “He has forsaken us! He deserts his party! He wants to be a Greybeard! After he has got us all into this scrape, he will leave us!” “I am not going to leave you,” cried Archer. “No one shall ever accuse me of deserting my party. I’ll stick by the Archers, right or wrong, I tell you, to the last moment. But this little fellow—take it as you please, mutiny if you will, and throw me out of the window. Call me traitor! coward! Greybeard!—this little fellow is worth you all put together, and I’ll stand by him against anyone who dares to lay a finger upon him; and the next morsel of food that I see shall be his. Touch him who dares!” The commanding air with which Archer spoke and looked, and the belief that the little boy deserved his protection, silenced the crowd. But the storm was only hushed. No sound of merriment was now to be heard—no battledore and shuttlecock—no ball, no marbles. Some sat in a corner, whispering their wishes that Archer would unbar the doors, and give up. Others, stretching their arms, and gaping as they sauntered up and down the room, wished for air, or food, or water. Fisher and his nine, who had such firm dependence upon the gipsy, now gave themselves up to utter despair. It was eight o’clock, growing darker and darker every minute, and no candles, no light could they have. The prospect of another long dark night made them still more discontented. Townsend, at the head of the yawners, and Fisher, at the head of the hungry malcontents, gathered round Archer and the few yet unconquered spirits, demanding “How long he meant to keep them in this dark dungeon? and whether he expected that they should starve themselves for his sake?”