“No.”
“It was not that you drew your sword for a marvellous gospel—for a gospel that dazzled the poor outcast in the dock with its magnificence?”
“No, no.”
“Then why did your voice seem to wail like a flute? Why did you pluck the back of your hands until the blood flowed from them? Why did you conclude in a whisper so gentle that it could only be heard by the spirit?”
“I was in a frenzy of avarice. I was fighting for myself.”
“No, no! Your words were inspired from heaven.”
“No, no! It was no more than the baleful power of the earth. I was fighting for a roof over my head, regular meals, a reputation, material needs.”
A thrill passed through the eyes of the woman. They seemed suddenly to be blinded by a thousand black thoughts she had half-forgotten. She sprang to her feet, possessed by an excitement that he who had made his pitiful confession was afraid to plumb. She placed her hands on his shoulders and peered into his face; and he did not shrink from contact with her, for by some occult power, which was her own genie, her own special and peculiar gift, he was disarmed.
“You have the voice, the bearing, of a god,” she said, quivering with terror, “but your speech belongs to the underworld whence I have come. Persist in it and we return to it together, walking hand in hand.”
The advocate strove feebly to escape from the demonic faculty which already had been exerted upon him. She resisted him mournfully.