He had a dim consciousness that he would be a
traitor to his race if he accepted a love, even from God, given him
as an exception from his kind. But he did not care to have such a
love. It was not what his heart yearned for. It was not love. He
could not love such a love. Yet he strove against it all--fought
for religion against right as he could; struggled to reduce his
rebellious feelings, to love that which was unlovely, to choose that
which was abhorrent, until nature almost gave way under the effort.
Often would he sink moaning on the floor, or stretch himself like a
corpse, save that it was face downwards, on the boards of the
bedstead. Night after night he returned to the battle, but with no
permanent success. What a success that would have been! Night
after night he came pale and worn from the conflict, found his
grandmother and Shargar composed, and in the quietness of despair
sat down beside them to his Latin version.
He little thought, that every night, at the moment when he stirred
to leave the upper room, a pale-faced, red-eyed figure rose from its
seat on the top of the stair by the door, and sped with long-legged
noiselessness to resume its seat by the grandmother before he should
enter. Shargar saw that Robert was unhappy, and the nearest he
could come to the sharing of his unhappiness was to take his place
outside the door within which he had retreated. Little, too, did
Shargar, on his part, think that Robert, without knowing it, was
pleading for him inside--pleading for him and for all his race in
the weeping that would not be comforted.
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