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So the crisis was at hand. The Squire felt battle in his blood.
As he walked along through his domain, exhilarated by the bright
frosty morning, and swinging his stick like a boy, he was in the
true Quixotic mood, ready to tilt at any wind-mill in his path. The
state of the country, the state of the war, the state of his own
affairs, had produced in him a final ferment of resentment and
disgust which might explode in any folly.
Why not go to prison? He thought he could bear it. A man must stand
by his opinions--even through sacrifice. It would startle the public
into attention. Such outrages on the freedom, on the ancient rights
of Englishmen, must not pass without protest. Yes--he felt it in him
to be a martyr! They would hardly refuse him a pocket Homer in
prison.
What, a month? Three weeks, in actual practice. Luckily he cared
nothing at all about food--though he refused to be rationed by a
despotic Government. On a handful of dates and a bit of coarse bread
he had passed many a day of hard work when he was excavating in the
East.


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