Hear these birds! When next they sing, you will be
broad awake, and of me, and the worship and service I would have
dedicated to you, I do not . . . it is a spectral sunset of a day that
was never to be!--awake, and looking on what? Back from a monstrous
villainy to the forlorn wretch who winked at it with knots in a string.
Count them then, and where will be your answer to heaven? I begged it of
you, to save you from those blows of remorse; yes, terrible!'
'Oh, no!'
'Terrible, I say!'
'You are mistaken, Mr. Camwell. It is my soother. I tell my beads on it.'
'See how a persistent residence in this place has made a Pagan of the
purest soul among us! Had you . . . but that day was not to lighten me!
More adorable in your errors that you are than others by their virtues,
you have sinned through excess of the qualities men prize. Oh, you have a
boundless generosity, unhappily enwound with a pride as great. There is
your fault, that is the cause of your misery. Too generous! too proud!
You have trusted, and you will not cease to trust; you have vowed
yourself to love, never to remonstrate, never to seem to doubt; it is too
much your religion, rare verily.
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