"If you have come, Mr. Diggle," he said, "merely to repeat what you said
yesterday, let me say at once that it is a waste of breath. I have not
changed my mind."
"No, not to repeat, my young friend. Crambe repetita--you know the
phrase? Yesterday I appealed, in what I had to say, to your reason;
either my appeal, or your reason, was at fault. Today I have another
purpose. 'Tis pity to come down to a lower plane; to appeal to the more
ignoble part of man; but since you have not yet cut your wisdom teeth I
must e'en accommodate myself. Angria is my friend; but there are moments,
look you, when the bonds of our friendship are put to a heavy strain. At
those moments Angria is perhaps most himself, and I, perhaps, am most
myself; which might prove to a philosopher that there is a radical
antagonism between the oriental and the occidental character. Since my
picture of the brighter side has failed to impress you, I propose to show
you the other side--such is the sincerity of my desire for your welfare.
And 'tis no empty picture--inanis imago, as Ovid might say--no, 'tis
sheer reality, speaking, terrible."
He turned and beckoned. In a moment Desmond heard the clank of chains,
and by and by, at the entrance of the shed, stood a figure at sight of
whom his blood ran cold. It was the bent, thin, broken figure of a Hindu,
his thin bare legs weighted with heavy irons. Ears, nose, upper lip were
gone; his eyes were lit with the glare of madness; the parched skin of
his hollow cheeks was drawn back, disclosing a grinning mouth and yellow
teeth.
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