This eBook was produced by Bryan Sherman
and David Widger
PAUL CLIFFORD, Volume 3.
By Edward Bulwer-Lytton
Up rouse ye then,
My merry, merry men!
—JOANNA BAILLIE.
When the moon rose that night, there was one spot upon which she palelybroke, about ten miles distant from Warlock, which the forewarnedtraveller would not have been eager to pass, but which might not haveafforded a bad study to such artists as have caught from the savagepainter of the Apennines a love for the wild and the adventurous. Darktrees, scattered far and wide over a broken but verdant sward, made thebackground; the moon shimmered through the boughs as she came slowlyforth from her pavilion of cloud, and poured a broader beam on twofigures just advanced beyond the trees. More plainly brought into lightby her rays than his companion, here a horseman, clad in a short cloakthat barely covered the crupper of his steed, was looking to the primingof a large pistol which he had just taken from his holster. A slouchedhat and a mask of black crape conspired with the action to throw anatural suspicion on the intentions of the rider. His horse, a beautifuldark gray, stood quite motionless, with arched neck, and its short earsquickly moving to and fro, demonstrative of that sagacious andanticipative attention which characterizes the noblest of all tamedanimals; you would not have perceived the impatience of the steed, butfor the white foam that gathered round the bit, and for an occasional andunfrequent toss of the head. Behind this horseman, and partially throwninto the dark shadow of the trees, another man, similarly clad, wasbusied in tightening the girths of a horse, of great strength and size.As he did so, he hummed, with no unmusical murmur, the air of a populardrinking-song.
"'Sdeath, Ned!" said his comrade, who had for some time been plunged in asilent revery,—"'Sdeath! why can you not stifle your love for the finearts at a moment like this? That hum of thine grows louder every moment;at last I expect it will burst out into a full roar. Recollect we arenot at Gentleman George's now!"
"The more's the pity, Augustus," answered Ned. "Soho, Little John;woaho, sir! A nice long night like this is made on purpose for drinking.Will you, sir? keep still then!"
"Man never is, but always to be blest," said the moralizing Tomlinson;"you see you sigh for other scenes even when you have a fine night andthe chance of a God-send before you."
"Ay, the night is fine enough," said Ned, who was rather a grumbler, as,having finished his groom-like operation, he now slowly mounted. "D—-it, Oliver! [The moon] looks out as broadly as if he were going to blab.For my part, I love a dark night, with a star here and there winking atus, as much as to say, 'I see you, my boys, but I won't say a word aboutit,' and a small, pattering, drizzling, mizzling rain, that preventsLittle John's hoofs being heard, and covers one's retreat, as it were.Besides, when one is a little wet, it is always necessary to drink themore, to keep the cold from one's stomach when one gets home."
"Or in other words," said Augustus, who loved a maxim from his veryheart, "light wet cherishes heavy wet!"
"Good!" said Ned, yawning. "Hang it, I wish the captain would come. Doyou know what o'clock it is? Not far short of eleven, I suppose?"
"About that! Hist, is that a carriage? No, it is only a sudden rise in