He raised his eyes to the roof and gripped his hands
together on his chest and slowly spoke a text which his wife had heard upon
his lips before, but only at times of deep concern or emotion.
"'The Lard is king, be the people never so impatient; He sitteth between
the cherubims, be the airth never so unquiet.'"
Few saw any particular meaning in this quotation applied in moments of
stress, as Michael usually employed it; but to the man it was a supreme
utterance, the last word to be spoken in the face of all the evil and
wickedness of the world. Come what might, God still reigned in heaven.
He spoke aloud thus far, and afterward, by the movement of his beard and
lip, Thomasin could see he was still talking or praying.
"Let the Lard lead 'e, husband, in this hard pass," she said. "'Vengeance
is Mine,' the Book sez."
He turned his eyes upon her. His brows were dragged down upon them; he had
brushed his gray hair like bristles upright on his head; across the mighty
wall of his forehead jagged cross-lines were stamped, like the broken
strata over a cliff-face.
"Ay, you say it. Vengeance be God's awn, an' mercy be God's awn. 'Tedn' for
no man to meddle wi' them. Us caan't be aught but just. She'll have justice
from me--no more'n that. 'Tis all wan now. Wanton or no wanton, she've
flummoxed me this day. The giglot lied an' said the thing that was not.
She'm not o' the Kingdom--the fust Tregenza as ever lied--the fust.
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