"Ah," he cried hoarsely, "I am stifling here. Let us go into the air."
And indeed he was changing so much--not essentially in his person,
though his face had become broader, intolerant, domineering and
cruel--but there was pouring from him so great an emanation of power
that it seemed to crack and break down the poor little room. Mr. G.M.
and myself had no desire to thwart him, and it never occurred to us to
do so. We should as soon have thought of stopping a thunderstorm. We
followed him outside on to the space of level ground before the house
and listened humbly while he spoke.
As well as I can recollect, he was lamenting some hindrance to his
impulses, some flaw in his power. "To have the instincts of the ruler
and no slaves to carry out my will. To wish to reward and punish and to
be deprived of the means. To be the master of the world, but only in my
own breast--Oh, fury! The ploughboy there is happy, for he has no
longings outside of his simple round life. While I--if I had the earth
in my hand, I should want a star. Misery! Misery!"
He leaned upon a low stonewall and looked down on the town, over the
pastures blurred with rain.
"And those wretches down there," he pronounced slowly, "who jeer at me
when I pass and insult me with impunity, whose heads should be struck
off, and I cannot strike them off! I loathe that town.
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