But when had been marked upon his brow
this harrowing care? when had his features before been stamped with
this anxiety, this anguish, this baffled desire, this strange unearthly
scowl, which made him even tremble? What! was it possible? it could not
be, that in time he was to be like those awful, those unearthly, those
unhallowed things that were around him. He felt as if he had fallen from
his state, as if he had dishonoured his ancestry, as if he had betrayed
his trust. He felt a criminal. In the darkness of his meditations a
flash burst from his lurid mind, a celestial light appeared to dissipate
this thickening gloom, and his soul felt as if it were bathed with the
softening radiancy. He thought of May Dacre, he thought of everything
that was pure, and holy, and beautiful, and luminous, and calm. It was
the innate virtue of the man that made this appeal to his corrupted
nature. His losses seemed nothing; his dukedom would be too slight a
ransom for freedom from these ghouls, and for the breath of the sweet
air.
He advanced to the Baron, and expressed his desire to play no more.
There was an immediate stir.
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