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CHAPTER XXVIII
_I AM PERSUADED_
So now at last I had heard the story of Uncle Silas's mysterious disgrace.
We sat silent for a while, and I, gazing into vacancy, sent him in a
chariot of triumph, chapletted, ringed, and robed through the city of
imagination, crying after him, 'Innocent! innocent! martyr and crowned!'
All the virtues and honesties, reason and conscience, in myriad
shapes--tier above tier of human faces--from the crowded pavement, crowded
windows, crowded roofs, joined in the jubilant acclamation, and trumpeters
trumpeted, and drums rolled, and great organs and choirs through open
cathedral gates, rolled anthems of praise and thanksgiving, and the bells
rang out, and cannons sounded, and the air trembled with the roaring
harmony; and Silas Ruthyn, the full-length portrait, stood in the burnished
chariot, with a proud, sad, clouded face, that rejoiced not with the
rejoicers, and behind him the slave, thin as a ghost, white-faced, and
sneering something in his ear: while I and all the city went on crying
'Innocent! innocent! martyr and crowned!' And now the reverie was ended;
and there were only Lady Knollys' stern, thoughtful face, with the pale
light of sarcasm on it, and the storm outside thundering and lamenting
desolately.
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