And mingled with it all was
self-pity, for drink had made him maudlin. He wanted so little--only a
modest comfort, a little ease. He had forgotten that half an hour before he
had been figuring in princes' cabinets. He would give up this business and
be quit of danger and the high road. The Duke must give him a reasonable
reward, and with it he and his child might dwell happily in some country
place. He remembered a cottage at Guildford all hung with roses. . . . But
the Duke was reputed a miserly patron, and at the thought Mr. Lovel's eyes
overflowed. There was that damned bird again, wailing like a lost soul. The
eeriness of it struck a chill to his heart, so that if he had been able to
think of any refuge he would have set spurs to his horse and galloped for
it in blind terror. He was in the mood in which men compose poetry, for he
felt himself a midget in the grip of immensities. He knew no poetry, save a
few tavern songs; but in his youth he had had the Scriptures drubbed into
him. He remembered ill-omened texts-- one especially about wandering
through dry places seeking rest.
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