It was only a formality for the auctioneer to cry it and knock it down for the amount of the tax bill.
As he arose from bed with the burden of all this hopeless misery crushing his soul, a sense of utter exhaustion and loneliness came over him.
"My love, I must go back to bed and try to sleep. I lay awake last night until two o'clock. I can't eat anything," he said to his wife as she announced breakfast.
"John, dear, don't give up like that."
"Can't help it."
"But you must. Come, here is something that will tone you up. I found this note under the front door this morning."
"What is it?"
"A notice from some of your admirers that you must leave this county in forty-eight hours or take the consequences."
He looked at this anonymous letter and smiled.
"Not such a failure after all, am I?" he mused.
"I thought that would help you," she laughed.
"Yes, I can eat breakfast on the strength of that."
He spread this letter out beside his plate, and read and reread it as he ate, while his eyes flashed with a strange half humourous light.
"Really, that's fine, isn't it?"
"You sower of sedition and rebellion, hypocrite and false prophet. The day has come to clean this county of treason and traitors. If you dare to urge the people to further resistance to authority, there will be one traitor less in this county."
"That sounds like the voice of a Daniel come to judgment, don't it?"
"I think Ezra Perkins might know something about it."
"I am sure of it."
