A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court by Mark Twain (the red fox clan .TXT) 📕

I was ready and willing to get free now; I hadn’t wanted to get free any sooner.  No, I cannot quite say that.  I had wanted to, but I had not been willing to take desperate chances, and had always dissuaded the king from them.  But now—ah, it was a new atmosphere!  Liberty would be worth any cost that might be put upon it now.  I set about a plan, and was straightway charmed with it.  It would require time, yes, and patience, too, a great deal of both.  One could invent quicker ways, and fully as sure ones; but none that would be as picturesque as this; none that could be made so dramatic.  And so I was not going to give this one up.  It might delay us months, but no matter, I would carry it out or break something.

Now and then we had an adventure.  One night we were overtaken by a snow-storm while still a mile from the village we were making for.  Almost instantly we were shut up as in a fog, the driving snow was so thick.  You couldn’t see a thing, and we were soon lost.  The slave-driver lashed us desperately, for he saw ruin before him, but his lashings only made matters worse, for they drove us further from the road and from likelihood of succor. So we had to stop at last and slump down in the snow where we were.  The storm continued until toward midnight, then ceased. By this time two of our feebler men and three of our women were dead, and others past moving and threatened with death.  Our master was nearly beside himself.  He stirred up the living, and made us stand, jump, slap ourselves, to restore our circulation, and he helped as well as he could with his whip.

Now came a diversion.  We heard shrieks and yells, and soon a woman came running and crying; and seeing our group, she flung herself into our midst and begged for protection.  A mob of people came tearing after her, some with torches, and they said she was a witch who had caused several cows to die by a strange disease, and practiced her arts by help of a devil in the form of a black cat.  This poor woman had been stoned until she hardly looked human, she was so battered and bloody.  The mob wanted to burn her.

Well, now, what do you suppose our master did?  When we closed around this poor creature to shelter her, he saw his chance.  He said, burn her here, or they shouldn’t have her at all.  Imagine that!  They were willing.  They fastened her to a post; they brought wood and piled it about her; they applied the torch while she shrieked and pleaded and strained her two young daughters to her breast; and our brute, with a heart solely for business, lashed us into position about the stake and warmed us into life and commercial value by the same fire which took away the innocent life of that poor harmless mother.  That was the sort of master we had.  I took his number.  That snow-storm cost him nine of his flock; and he was more brutal to us than ever, after that, for many days together, he was so enraged over his loss.

We had adventures all along.  One day we ran into a procession. And such a procession!  All the riffraff of the kingdom seemed to be comprehended in it; and all drunk at that.  In the van was a cart with a coffin in it, and on the coffin sat a comely young girl of about eighteen suckling a baby, which she squeezed to her breast in a passion of love every little while, and every little while wiped from its face the tears which her eyes rained down upon it; and always the foolish little thing smiled up at her, happy and content, kneading her breast with its dimpled fat hand, which she patted and fondled right over her breaking heart.