"Quick, go in."

"Am I to sweep the chimney?" demanded Israel; "I didn't engage for
that."

"Pooh, pooh, this is your hiding-place. Come, move in."

"But where does it go to, Squire Woodcock? I don't like the looks of
it."

"Follow me. I'll show you."

Pushing his florid corpulence into the mysterious aperture, the elderly
Squire led the way up steep stairs of stone, hardly two feet in width,
till they reached a little closet, or rather cell, built into the
massive main wall of the mansion, and ventilated and dimly lit by two
little sloping slits, ingeniously concealed without, by their forming
the sculptured mouths of two griffins cut in a great stone tablet
decorating that external part of the dwelling. A mattress lay rolled up
in one corner, with a jug of water, a flask of wine, and a wooden
trencher containing cold roast beef and bread.

"And I am to be buried alive here?" said Israel, ruefully looking round.

"But your resurrection will soon be at hand," smiled the Squire; "two
days at the furthest."

"Though to be sure I was a sort of prisoner in Paris, just as I seem
about to be made here," said Israel, "yet Doctor Franklin put me in a
better jug than this, Squire Woodcock. It was set out with boquets and a