He sank down upon a stone.
"Dead! They have killed him! Gwynplaine! My child! My son!"
And he burst into passionate sobs.
CHAPTER V.
STATE POLICY DEALS WITH LITTLE MATTERS AS WELL AS WITH GREAT.
Ursus, alas! had boasted that he had never wept. His reservoir of tears was full. Such plentitude as is accumulated drop on drop, sorrow on sorrow, through a long existence, is not to be poured out in a moment. Ursus wept alone.
The first tear is a letting out of waters. He wept for Gwynplaine, for Dea, for himself, Ursus, for Homo. He wept like a child. He wept like an old man. He wept for everything at which he had ever laughed. He paid off arrears. Man is never nonsuited when he pleads his right to tears.
The corpse they had just buried was Hardquanonne's; but Ursus could not know that.
The hours crept on.