Dick was not listening.  Something in his own bosom was arguing Astbury's cause, better than that vagrant could do it himself. Homeless, friendless in England, might there not yet be a career for him in the West?  Not in cold, pious Rhode Island, but under brighter skies that offered fiercer pleasures.  Good Parson Perrient had painted Providence plantation as a sort of paradise, where the liberty and toleration dreamt of by a few in England were the law for all; but was that refuge open to him?  The good parson might be dead; his daughter wedded to some sturdy settler, who would have no fancy for such a compromising guest as one bearing the hated name of Harrison!  To fly to New England would be but to begin his old life over again, and as Astbury truly said, What had it brought him?  What had he gained?  What had England gained by all they had done and dared?  "If our cause was, as we thought, of God, why did He not own us?  What were General Harrison's dreams of a pure republic, but vanity?  Who can say if his dreams of heaven were any truer?"