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He began it with an expression of supreme indifference. He finished it with a sudden leap out of his chair, and a loud shout of astonishment. Wondering, as he well might, at this extraordinary outbreak, Mr. Brock took up the letter which Allan had tossed across the table to him.
While on the march with about two thousand men, Hull was informed of the declaration of war, which news at the same time reached the British posts in Canada, and his little army was in imminent peril. The government gave Hull discretionary power for invading Canada. General Sir Isaac Brock, Lieutenant Governor of upper Canada, was in command of the British forces.
He was now free to go where he pleased; but he had heard something about the cloak of Gen. Brock; he knew too, that the friends of the General had offered fifty guineas for it, and now he would just convey it to them. With the sagacity of his race, he surveyed the hotel, and determined the exact location of the show-room.
Like all intelligent flags of truce, Baynes kept his eyes wide open to indications in the enemy's lines. The militia, he reported, were not uniformed; they were distinguished from other people of the country only by a cockade. The regulars were mostly recruits. The war was unpopular, the great majority impatient to return to their homes; a condition Brock observed also in the Canadians.
Something of that idea of damnation as a lack of the will for salvation has crept at a number of points into contemporary religious thought. It was the fine fancy of Swedenborg that the damned go to their own hells of their own accord. It underlies a queer poem, "Simpson," by that interesting essayist upon modern Christianity, Mr. Clutton Brock, which I have recently read.
Brock was, however, by no means so confounded as his captain: he was thirty years older than the latter, and in the course of fifty years of military life had learned to look on the most dangerous enemy, or the most beautiful woman, with the like daring, devil-may-care determination to conquer.
"Do you still call yourself by that name," interrupted Mr. Brock, "now your true name is known to me?" "Since I have read my father's confession," was the answer, "I like my ugly alias better than ever. Allow me to repeat the question which I was about to put to you a minute since: Has Ozias Midwinter done his best thus far to enlighten Mr. Brock?" The rector evaded a direct reply.
She told Brock that she wanted something out of the drawers of her library-table, of which the key had been lost, and desired him to send for Higg to break it open; but Brock wouldn't hear of it. He said his Missus had left him in charge, and he could not be answerable to her for having locks picked without her authority- or leastways the Colonel's.
He soon learned to build up a load and adjust a tump-line, after which practice made the carrying of a pack almost twice his own weight a not extraordinary performance. These trips afforded Brock an opportunity to study Indian character.
An inevitable quarrel ensued; Brock and his companions could not agree on the choice of tit-bits, and a medley of discordant grunts and squeals seemed to fill the chamber, though now and again it partly subsided, as two or three of the cubs, having fixed on the same portion of the rabbit, tugged and strained for its possession so intent on the struggle that they dared not waste their breath in useless wrangling.
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