"At this sir knight flamed up with ire!

His great chest heaved! his eyes flashed fire.

The crimson that suffused his face

To deepest purple now gave place."

Who can describe the frenzy of Old Hurricane upon discovering the fraud

that had been practised upon him by Black Donald?

It was told him the next morning in his tent, at his breakfast table,

in the presence of his assembled family, by the Rev. Mr. Goodwin.

Upon first hearing it, he was incapable of anything but blank staring,

until it seemed as though his eyes must start from their sockets!

Then his passion, "not loud but deep," found utterance only in emphatic

thumps of his walking stick upon the ground!

Then, as the huge emotion worked upward, it broke out in grunts, groans

and inarticulate exclamations!

Finally it burst forth as follows: "Ugh! ugh! ugh! Fool! dolt! blockhead! Brute that I've been! I wish

somebody would punch my wooden head! I didn't think the demon himself

could have deceived me so! Ugh! Nobody but the demon could have done

it! and he is the demon! The very demon himself! He does not

disguise--he transforms himself! Ugh! ugh! ugh! that I should have been

such a donkey!"

"Sir, compose yourself! We are all liable to suffer deception," said

Mr. Goodwin.

"Sir," broke forth Old Hurricane, in fury, "that wretch has eaten at my

table! Has drunk wine with me!! Has slept in my bed!!! Ugh! ugh!!

ugh!!!"

"Believing him to be what he seemed, sir, you extended to him the

rights of hospitality; you have nothing to blame yourself with!"

"Demmy, sir, I did more than that! I've coddled him up with negusses!

I've pampered him up with possets and put him to sleep in my own bed!

Yes, sir--and more! Look there at Mrs. Condiment, sir! The way in which

she worshiped that villain was a sight to behold!" said Old Hurricane,

jumping up and stamping around the tent in fury.

"Oh, Mr. Goodwin, sir, how could I help it when I thought he was such a

precious saint?" whimpered the old lady.

"Yes, sir! when 'his reverence' would be tired with delivering a

long-winded mid-day discourse, Mrs. Condiment, sir, would take him into

her own tent--make him lie down on her own sacred cot, and set my niece

to bathing his head with cologne and her maid to fanning him, while she

herself prepared an iced sherry cobbler for his reverence! Aren't you

ashamed of yourself, Mrs. Condiment, mum!" said Old Hurricane, suddenly

stopping before the poor old woman, in angry scorn.




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