A cupboard stood against the wall between the door and the window, the hangers dangled— empty, swaying. It is the season in which the eye of the man of the North is lighted with a turbid flame, and the proud shadow of death that winter sweeps clean and free, sets on his brow. A crucified horse hangs from the cross beam. Catholics would be handed over to the Pope as soon as they died; but to whom could we hand over Protestants? They follow from above the armies marching across the limitless plain.
nest...