Christ, I tell 'e, Christ--Christ--Jesus Christ. It's _Him_ as'll
smuggle us all into heaven, not your psalm-smitin', knock-me-down,
ten-commandment, cussin' God. I'm grawin' very auld an' I knaw what I knaw.
Your God's a _devil_, fisherman--a graspin', cruel devil; an' them the
devil saves is damned. 'Tis Christ as you've turned your stiff back
'pon--Christ as'll let this poor lass into heaven afore ever you gets
theer! You ban't in sight o' the gates o' pearl, not you, for all your cold
prayers. You'm young in well-doin'; an' 'tis a 'ard road you'll fetch home
by, I'll swear; an' 'tis more'n granite the Lard'll use to make your heart
bleed. He'll break you, Tregenza--you, so bold, as looks dry-eyed 'pon the
sun an' reckons your throne'll wan day be as bright. He'll break you, an'
bring you to your knees, an' that 'fore your gray hairs be turned, as mine,
to white. Oh, Christ Jesus, look you at this blind sawl an' give en
somethin' better to lay hold 'pon than his poor bally-muck o' religion
what's nort but a gert livin' lie!"
Thomas Chirgwin seemed mightily transfigured as he spoke. The words came
without an effort, but he uttered them with pauses and in a loud voice not
lacking solemnity. His head shook, yet he stood firm and motionless upon
his feet; and he made his points with a gesture, often repeated, of his
open right hand.
As for Tregenza, the man listened through all, though he heard but little.
Pages:
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353