They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. Terrific shouts were raised by the rabble, who threatened to tear Wild in pieces if he showed himself. Beneath two tall elms, whose boughs completely overshadowed the roof, stood Mr. " "Rather behind me;" and he spoke no more that morning. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory.
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