"Hail, ye that are my kinsmen!" he answered; "hail, ye that spring of
an accursed race, as I! And woe to England for that hour wherein
Manuel of Poictesme held traffic with the Sorceress of Provence, and
the devil's son begot an heir for England! Of ice and of lust and of
hell-fire are all we sprung; old records attest it; and fickle and
cold and ravenous and without shame are all our race until the end. Of
your brother's dishonor ye make merchandise to-day, and to-day
fratricide whispers me, and leers, and, Heaven help me! I attend. O
God of Gods! wilt Thou dare bid a man live stainless, having aforetime
filled his veins with such a venom? Then haro, will I cry from Thy
deepest hell.... Oh, now let the adulterous Redeemer of Poictesme
rejoice in his tall fires, to note that his descendants know of what
wood to make a crutch! You are very wise, my kinsmen. Take your
measures, messieurs who are my kinsmen! Though were I of any other
race, with what expedition would I now kill you, I that recognize
within me the strength to do it! Then would I slay you! without any
animosity, would I slay you then, just as I would kill as many
splendid snakes!"
He went away, laughing horribly.
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