"Remember, Sir Owen, she has been very ill; remember what has
happened, and if you prevent her from going to the convent--"
"So, Merat, you're against me too? You want to drive her into a
convent, do you?"
"Sir Owen, you hardly know what you are saying. I am thinking of what
might happen if you went to Ayrdale Mansions and forced in the door.
Sir Owen, I beg of you."
"Then if you oppose me you are responsible. They will get her, I tell
you; those blasted ghouls, haunters of graveyards, diggers of
graves, faint creatures who steal out of the light, mumblers of
prayers! You know, Harding, what I say is true. God!" He raised his
fist in the air and fell back into an armchair, screaming oaths and
blasphemies without sense. It was on Harding's lips to say, "Asher,
you are making a show of yourself." "_Vous vous donnez en spectacle_"
were the words that crossed Merat's mind. But there was something
noble in this crisis, and Harding admired Owen--here was one who was
not afraid to shriek out and to rage. And what nobler cause for a
man's rage?
"The woman he loves is about to be taken out of the sunlight into the
grey shadow of the cloister. Why shouldn't he rage?"
"To sing of death, not of life, and where the intelligence wilts and
bleaches!" he shrieked.
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