“After ... he’d had what he wanted. That’s a nice sort of repentance!” and he laughed harshly.
From far away a cock, then another, gave its strange, double-edged cry—a cry, which, like Hermes, is at once the herald of the morning and all its radiant denizens, and the marshaller to their dim abode of the light troupe of passionate ghosts: Clerk Saunders and Maid Margaret, Cathy and Heathcliff.
He laughed again, this time a little wildly: “Hark to the voice of one in the wilderness crying, ‘repent ye!’ Do you remember Newman’s translation of the Æterne Rerum Conditor? How does it go again? Wait ...
Hark! for Chanticleer is singing,
Hark! he chides the lingering sun
Something ... something ... wait ... how does it go....
Shrill it sounds, the storm relenting
Soothes the weary seaman’s ears;
Once it wrought a great repenting
In that flood of Peter’s tears.”