The convict sprang into the cabin, where Sibyl still crouched in the
corner. The man's voice was imploring as he said, "Miss Andres, Miss
Andres, what is the matter? Did he touch you? Tell me, did he harm you?"
Sobbing, the girl held out her hands, and he lifted her to her feet.
"You--you came--just in time, Mr. Marston."
An instant he stood there, then muttering something under his breath, he
turned, caught up his rifle, and started toward the door.
But, as he reached the threshold, she cried out, "Mr. Marston, don't,
don't leave me again."
The convict stopped, hesitated, then he said solemnly "Miss Andres, can
you pray? I know you can. You are a good girl. If God can hear a prayer he
will surely hear you. Come with me. Come--and pray girl--pray for me."
* * * * *
The most charitable construction that can be put upon the action of James
Rutlidge, just related, is to accept the explanation of his conduct that
he, himself made to Sibyl. The man was insane--as Mr. Taine was insane--as
Mrs. Taine was insane.
What else can be said of a class of people who, in an age wedded to
materialism, demand of their artists not that they shall set before them
ideals of truth and purity and beauty, but that they shall feed their
diseased minds with thoughts of lust and stimulate their abnormal passions
with lascivious imaginings? Can a class--whatever its pretense to culture
may be--can a class, that, in story and picture and music and play, counts
greatest in art those who most effectively arouse the basest passions of
which the human being is capable, be rightly judged sane?
James Rutlidge was bred, born, and reared in an atmosphere that does not
tolerate purity of thought.
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