"Down on your knees!" she said,
"craven sons, whose sires would blush to own you! You who have steeped
your hearts in pride and boastfulness! Were your fathers slow to draw
the sword and quick to sheathe it? Did they cower by their hearths when
warm blood was being spilt? did they feast when others fought? would
they not have leaped, as the tempest rushes from its caves, to scatter
like the sand those who should have dared to bend the knee to false
Gods, objects of their loathing and derision? Runs this noble blood in
your stagnant veins? From giants ye have become pigmies!" The majestic
contempt with which these words had been delivered had a crushing
effect. She continued her harangue for some time in the same strain.
Every Voizin's head was bowed, every form bent and trembling. The
sorceress then, slowly turning, faced seaward. Her arms assumed the
well-known beseeching attitude, the serpent bracelet glittering fiercely
in the sun. Her voice changed, became softer. "Yet they are my people!"
she continued, "and the last of our race. Ennoble them, great Gods!
quicken their hearts and spare them!" Looking outward with the rapt look
of a prophetess in whom, though torn with tempests of fanaticism and of
passion, human and superhuman, no thought was mean, no sentiment
ignoble, she poured out this her prayer; not for mercy!--her Gods knew
not this attribute; nor could she understand it; if the craven continued
to be a craven she felt he were better dead;--not for peace and
contentment!--to these blessings neither she nor they attached
value;--but for fearlessness and steadfastness of purpose, and also for
courage to die for the truth! there were petitions poured out by this
woman that would have honoured the lips of the champion of any creed.
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