The policemen surrounded the innkeeper.

The justice continued, pointing out Govicum,—­

“Arrest that boy as an accomplice.”  The hand of an officer fell upon the collar of Govicum, who looked at him inquisitively.  The boy was not much alarmed, scarcely understanding the occurrence; having already observed many things out of the way, he wondered if this were the end of the comedy.

The justice of the quorum forced his hat down on his head, crossed his hands on his stomach, which is the height of majesty, and added,—­

“It is decided, Master Nicless; you are to be taken to prison, and put into jail, you and the boy; and this house, the Tadcaster Inn, is to remain shut up, condemned and closed.  For the sake of example.  Upon which, you will follow us.”

BOOK THE SEVENTH.

THE TITANESS.

CHAPTER I.

THE AWAKENING.

And Dea!

It seemed to Gwynplaine, as he watched the break of day at Corleone Lodge, while the things we have related were occurring at the Tadcaster Inn, that the call came from without; but it came from within.

Who has not heard the deep clamours of the soul?

Moreover, the morning was dawning.

Aurora is a voice.

Of what use is the sun if not to reawaken that dark sleeper—­the conscience?

Light and virtue are akin.

Whether the god be called Christ or Love, there is at times an hour when he is forgotten, even by the best.  All of us, even the saints, require a voice to remind us; and the dawn speaks to us, like a sublime monitor.  Conscience calls out before duty, as the cock crows before the dawn of day.

That chaos, the human heart, hears the fiat lux!

Gwynplaine—­we will continue thus to call him (Clancharlie is a lord, Gwynplaine is a man)—­Gwynplaine felt as if brought back to life.  It was time that the artery was bound up.

For a while his virtue had spread its wings and flown away.

“And Dea!” he said.

Then he felt through his veins a generous transfusion.  Something healthy and tumultuous rushed upon him.  The violent irruption of good thoughts is like the return home of a man who has not his key, and who forces his own look honestly.  It is an escalade, but an escalade of good.  It is a burglary, but a burglary of evil.

“Dea!  Dea!  Dea!” repeated he.

He strove to assure himself of his heart’s strength.  And he put the question with a loud voice—­“Where are you?”

He almost wondered that no one answered him.

Then again, gazing on the walls and the ceiling, with wandering thoughts, through which reason returned.

“Where are you?  Where am I?”

And in the chamber which was his cage he began to walk again, to and fro, like a wild beast in captivity.