The Squire felt battle in his blood.
As he walked along through his domain, exhilarated by the bright frosty morning, and swinging his stick like a boy, he was in the true Quixotic mood, ready to tilt at any wind-mill in his path.

The state of the country, the state of the war, the state of his own affairs, had produced in him a final ferment of resentment and disgust which might explode in any folly.
Why not go to prison?
He thought he could bear it.

A man must stand by his opinions--even through sacrifice.

It would startle the public into attention.

Such outrages on the freedom, on the ancient rights of Englishmen, must not pass without protest.