"Thou, Constance, art the receptacle of all the damned ills flung from
mortals, whether of the mind or body. As for soul, that unknown thing
to thee--thou canst not recognize in another and therefore canst take
on nothing of it save its punishment hereafter, when thou shalt have
no choice of condiment. Thy heart lies festering in the rheum that
exuviates from its foul surroundings. Conscience thou art bankrupt of,
and in its place doth lurk the bawd that envenoms thy senses and turns
thy narrow body into prodigious corruption--"
"Cedric,--my God; stay thy tongue!"
"Nay, nay; my tongue is a well-matched Jehu for thy devil's race. I
would I might scorch thee with it, to give thee foretaste of that to
come; perchance 'twould seethe thy rottenness to the quick--if thou
of that art not also bereft--and turn thee from thy course. Thou dost
pander for the King's son and steal an innocent maid of unripe years
to gratify his lust--ah, 'sdeath! thou art but a pernicious wench,
as false as hell. And when the nurse whispered that 'twould save the
child from shame, thy protrusile tang-of-a-serpent didst sibilate in
his ready ear a denial--"
"Cedric, Cedric; cease, I pray!" And Constance fell upon her knees
sobbing.
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