Paul Hubbard's
bitter hatred of gentlemen, so far stood him in stead of courage,
that it would not let him hide himself. He stood in plain view, but
with his face half averted from Woodbridge, while his lip curled in
bitter scorn of his own craven spirit. For it must be remembered that
I am writing not of the American farmer and laborer of this democratic
age, but of men who were separated but by a generation or two from the
peasant serfs of England, and who under the stern and repressive rule
of the untitled aristocracy of the colonies, had enjoyed little
opportunity for outgrowing inherited instincts of servility.
And now it was that Perez Hamlin, who had been all this while within
the tavern, his attention attracted by the sudden silence which had
fallen on the people without, stepped to the door, appearing on the
threshold just above Squire Woodbridge's head and a little to one side
of him. At a glance he saw the way things were going. Already half
demoralized by the mere presence and glance of the magnates, a dozen
threatening words from the opening lips of Woodbridge would suffice to
send these incipient rebels, like whipped curs, to their homes. He
thought of Reub, and for a moment his heart was filled with grief and
terror.
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