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sand patient captives, whose eyes look towards heaven and you for their redemption.
—The Lady Baussiere rode on.
Pity the unhappy, said a devout, venerable, hoary-headed man, meekly holding up a box, begirt with iron, in his withered hands—I beg for the unfortunate—good, my lady, 'tis for a prison—for an hospital—'tis for an old man—a poor man undone by shipwreck, by suretyship, by fire—I call God and all his angels to witness—'tis to cloath the naked—to feed the hungry—'tis to comfort the sick and the broken hearted.
—The Lady Baussiere rode on.
A decayed kinsman bowed himself to the ground.
—The
