“A man who fears any eyes but those of God should never speak of such things.”
“And if we are not allowed to talk, what are we allowed to do? You pile a mountain on to a hapless wretch and may he not groan when he is crushed?”
“Lift up your hands and hold off the rock that weighs upon you.”
“I cannot, I cannot. It bears the burthen of centuries, and is formed of the bones of a thousand generations!”
“Poor insect!” said Paoletti ironically. “I declare nothing on earth moves me to pity so much as a philosopher. For my own part I can only beg you to express yourself with perfect frankness on all your feelings....”
“With frankness?”
“With perfect frankness, sparing me no hard words.”
“When the storm overtakes me and lashes me and fells me to the ground, what am I to think of that terrific power? can I stop it, can I punish it, can I even insult and abuse it? What can I say that will hurt it, how can I defend myself against so formidable a foe—who is but empty air?”
“Dear Sir,” said Paoletti folding his hands with an expression of compunction: “I, as a humble but outraged priest, pity you and forgive you.” And then his slow, leaden step sounded across the floor as he made his way back to the sick-room.