So there he sat, bolt upright,--his small, lean fingers clenched convulsively; his sullen eyes straining into space, their whites yellowed with streaks of corrupt blood; his ears literally moving to and fro, like the ignobler animals', to catch every sound,--a Dionysius in his cave; but his posture decorous and collected, and every formal hair in its frizzled place.
"Yes, yes," he said in a muttered tone, "I hear them; my good Jacobins are at their post on the stairs.

Pity they swear so! I have a law against oaths,--the manners of the poor and virtuous people must be reformed.

When all is safe, an example or two amongst those good Jacobins would make effect.

Faithful fellows, how they love me! Hum!--what an oath was that!--they need not swear so loud,--upon the very staircase, too! It detracts from my reputation.

Ha! steps!" The soliloquist glanced at the opposite mirror, and took up a volume; he seemed absorbed in its contents, as a tall fellow, a bludgeon in his hand, a girdle adorned with pistols round his waist, opened the door, and announced two visitors.