Gwynplaine—we will continue thus to call him (Clancharlie is a lord, Gwynplaine is a man)—Gwynplaine felt as if brought back to life. It was time that the artery was bound up.
For a while his virtue had spread its wings and flown away.
"And Dea!" he said.
Then he felt through his veins a generous transfusion. Something healthy and tumultuous rushed upon him. The violent irruption of good thoughts is like the return home of a man who has not his key, and who forces his own look honestly. It is an escalade, but an escalade of good. It is a burglary, but a burglary of evil.
"Dea! Dea! Dea!" repeated he.
He strove to assure himself of his heart's strength. And he put the question with a loud voice—"Where are you?"
He almost wondered that no one answered him.
Then again, gazing on the walls and the ceiling, with wandering thoughts, through which reason returned.
"Where are you? Where am I?"
And in the chamber which was his cage he began to walk again, to and fro, like a wild beast in captivity.