as patronizing,
perhaps unconsciously made so, but the more offensive on that account.
One suspicious fancy engenders another; it now occurred to the general
that his former comrade and late guest, in more than one unguarded
speech, had arrogated superiority, and that he had presumed, without
sufficient warrant, on the subserviency of men greater than himself.

"Does he think I am committed to him, body and soul? Does he take it
for granted that I am a tool and a fool? Burr should consider his own
position and mine. I have had too much experience in the world to be
caught by this shrewd contriver, or by any man."

Wilkinson put the letter away, and taking a book, threw himself on his
bed. The volume he had chosen was a fine copy of the _Sentimental
Journey_, his favorite reading. The italicised wit and glossy
licentiousness of Yorick did not fix attention. Neither the "Dead
Ass," nor the "Starling," nor the fair "Fille de chambre," had now a
charm to steal the reader from his petty miseries of head and heart.
Casting the book aside, he again arose, paced nervously up and down
the cramped cabin, and once more sought comfort in the cushioned seat.
Prudence bade him seek home before nightfall, but the inertia of
despondency kept him from going. The gathering darkness, the whining
wind, the sound of restless water lapping and sucking around the keel,
suggested superstitious forebodings and called up dismal images. To
every mood there is a season; this was Wilkinson's hour of
self-examination. He looked backward on his deeds and inward on his
motives. He mistrusted the future. If he were sure that Burr's rainbow
dipped its gorgeous ends in gold, no accusing ghost of the past would
deter him from chasing the yellow temptation over mountains or through
bogs. He was not given to brooding over bygone failures, nor was he
much afraid that his buried sins would arise to find him out. He began
to think better of his friend's message. Burr was certainly a deep man
and bold; he had genius; he had perseverance, enthusiasm, resource,
resolution. Taking him all in all, he was a masterful spirit, a fit
partner, nay, even a leader for James Wilkinson.

To dispel mental gloom, the general summoned his familiar, the nimble
spirit of alcohol. One dram proved so enlivening, by going "straight
to the spot," that another was tossed off, from a sense of gratitude.
Evidently the best ingredient in the bitters was the solvent, not the
Peruvian