That one injunction--"Forgive, as you would hope to be
forgiven"--was ever a stumbling-block to Guy.
Besides all this, he knew, better than any one, what sort of an
adversary he was contending against; one with whom each step in
negotiation or temporizing was a step toward discomfiture. It was like
the Spaniard with his _navaja_ against the sabre: your only chance is
keeping him steadily at the sword's-point, without breaking ground; if
he once gets under your guard, not all the saints in the calendar can
save you.
Perhaps, then, he was right, after all. Certainly Ralph Mohun thought
so, as he listened to a sketch of the proceedings with a grim
satisfaction edifying to witness.
As for me, before I went to bed that night, I read through those
chapters in the "Mort d'Arthur" that tell how the long, guilty loves of
Launcelot and Guenever ended. In the present case, there was certainly
wonderfully little penitence on the lady's side, but yet there were
points of resemblance which struck me. [I always think the queen must
have been the image of Flora.] It is worth while wading through many
chapters of exaggeration and obscurity to come out into the noble light
of the epilogue at last.
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