I believe it would have come down; and if it had, he would have
gone to her feet before it: not under its weight,--the lightning
is not heavy,--but under the soul that would have struck with it.
But there was no need: the towering threat and the flaming eye and
the swift rush buffeted the caitiff away: he recoiled three steps,
and nearly fell down. She followed him as he went, strong in that
moment as Hercules, beautiful and terrible as Michael driving
Satan. He dared not, or rather he could not, stand before her: he
writhed and cowered and recoiled down the room while she marched
upon him. Then the driven serpent hissed as it wriggled away.

"'For all this, she too shall be turned out of Beaurepaire,--not
like me, but forever! I swear it, _parolé de Perrin!_'

"'She shall never be turned out! I swear it, _foi de De
Beaurepaire!_'

"'You, too, daughter of Sa--'

"'_Tais toi, et sors à l'instant même! Lâche!_'

"The old lady moaning and trembling and all but fainting in her
chair; the young noble like destroying angel, hand in air, and
great eye scorching and withering; and the caitiff wriggling out
at the door, wincing with body and head, his knees knocking, his
heart panting, yet raging, his teeth gnashing, his cheek livid,
his eye gleaming with the fire of hell."

Too much of this sort of thing becomes meretricious; a man is never the
master of his subject, when he suffers himself to be carried away by it.