which plucks the feathers from the wings of the soul and sits it
naked and shivering in a vault, where the passing of a common
hodman's foot above sounds like the king of terrors coming,--you are
free of them, you live in the day and for the future, by this
exercise and discipline of the soul's faith. Me it keeps young
everlastingly, like the fountain of . . ."'

'I say I cannot sit and hear any more of it!' exclaimed the colonel,
chafing out of patience.

Lord Palmet said to Miss Halkett: 'Isn't it like what we used to remember
of a sermon?'

Cecilia waited for her father to break away, but Captain Baskelett had
undertaken to skip, and was murmuring in sing-song some of the phrases
that warned him off:

'"History--Bible of Humanity; . . . Permanency--enthusiast's dream--
despot's aim--clutch of dead men's fingers in live flesh . . . Man
animal; man angel; man rooted; man winged": . . . Really, all this is
too bad. Ah! here we are: "At them with outspeaking, Beauchamp!" Here
we are, colonel, and you will tell me whether you think it treasonable or
not. "At them," et caetera: "We have signed no convention to respect
their"--he speaks of Englishmen, Colonel Halkett--"their passive
idolatries; a people with whom a mute conformity is as good as worship,
but a word of dissent holds you up to execration; and only for the
freedom won in foregone days their hate would be active. As we have them
in their present stage,"--old Nevil's mark--"We are not parties to the
tacit agreement to fill our mouths and shut our eyes. We speak because
it is better they be roused to lapidate us than soused in their sty, with