He would have a proud name to offer
her, and this time it should be an unsullied one. This time the world
should ring with his genius, not with his follies. This time--Oh,
what was this? Stop! Stop! No; he could not part with it. The grand,
trained intellect of which he had been so proud--the perfected genius
which had been his glory--they should not strip them from him--they
were part of himself; they were his very essence; he would not give
them up! Oh, God! this horrible shrinking! This was Hell; this was
not re-birth. Physical torture? The words were meaningless beside
this warping, this tearing apart of spirit and mind--those precious
children of his brain--limb from limb. Their shrieks for
help!--their cries of anguish and horror! their clutches! their last
spasmodic--despairing--weakening embrace! He _would_ hold them! His
clasp would defy all the powers of Earth and Air! No, they should not
go--they should not. Oh! this cursed hand, with its nerves of steel.
It would conquer yet, conquer and compress him down into an atom
of impotence--There! it had wrenched them from him; they were
gone--gone--forever.
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