A flutter winged among the benches and the blood flew to Mary’s cheek as he doled the words a second time.
With his stay in the town, the clergyman’s concern had grown at the toleration with which it regarded the presence of this reprobated apostle of hellish unbelief. The thought had been strong in his mind as he wrote his sermon. This was an opportunity to sound the alarum of faith. His face shone with ardor.
The doctor possessed a vocabulary. His voice was sonorous, his vestments above reproach. He was under the very roof of Asteroth, with the visible presence of anti-Christ before his eyes. The situation was inspiratory. From a brief judicial arraignment of skepticism, he launched into allusions unmistakably personal, beneath which Mary Shelley sat quivering with resentment, her softer sentiment of lang syne turned to bitter regret. Furtive glances were upon the pair; Pisa—the English part of it—was enjoying a new sensation.
A pained, flushing wonder was in Shelley’s diffident, bright eyes as the clergyman, with outstretched arm, thundered toward them the warning of Paul:
“Beware lest any man spoil you through philosophy and vain deceit, after the tradition of men, after the rudiments of the world! Their throat is an open sepulcher; the poison of asps is under their lips.”
Mary’s hand had found her husband’s. “Let us go,” he said in an undertone, and drew her to her feet. They passed to the door, the cynosure of observation, the launched utterance pursuing them:
“Whose mouth is full of cursing and bitterness, and the way of peace have they not known.”
In the street Mary turned to him. “Don’t mind, Bysshe,” she pleaded.
He half smiled, but his eyes were feverishly bright. He kissed her as he answered:
“I’m going for a sail. Don’t worry if I’m not back to-night. I’ll run up to Via Reggia. The wind will do me good.”