"Now pardon me, if I am rude again. Looking at you, I can see the same devil still."
"Indeed, and you will console me now, as you did then, by telling me that a dash of viciousness is necessary to make a character interesting."
"I should prune and explain my speech. By a devil, I did not mean a malicious imp of darkness, wholly bent on evil. I meant nothing more than certain impulses and emotions,—passions, if I may call them so,—very turbulent tenants, yet of admirable use when well dealt with. These were the devil whom I used to see in you, and whom I see still."
"I shall tremble at myself."
"Then you are not so brave as you were when you leaped the fallen tree at New Baden. Your demon has ceased to have an alarming look. I think you have turned him to good account. Shall I illustrate from the legends of the saints?"
"In any way you please; but I should never have expected you to resort to so pious a source."
"St. Bernard, crossing the Alps on some holy errand, was met by Satan, who, being anxious to prevent his journey, broke one of his carriage wheels. But St. Bernard caught him, sprinkled him with holy water, doubled him into a wheel, and put him upon the carriage in place of the broken one. The legend says that he answered the purpose admirably, and bore the saint safely to the end of his journey."
"Your legend is absurd enough; but I think I catch your meaning, and wish I could think you wholly in the right. It is singular that you and I have never met without our conversation becoming personal to ourselves. We are always studying each other—always trying to penetrate each other's thoughts."
"On one side, at least, the success has been complete. As you look at me, I feel that you are reading me like a book, from title page to finis."
"You greatly overrate my penetration. I am conscious, at this moment, of movements in your mind which I do not understand."