DIANE.
'Twould be but to win his curse. You little dream the deathless pride
that's rooted in his heart! To wrench out that pride would break the
heart that holds it.
PAUL.
[_Bitterly_.]
Then let it break! I, too, am proud, Diane, proud as all are proud
to be who owe their manhood to their God and not to the favour of a
king!--If your father scorns the sacred work of heaven's hand, then he
is only fit for scorn himself.
DIANE.
Oh, Paul! Be charitable!
PAUL.
Charitable! To what?--Your father's pride in the race from which
he springs--the race whose iron rule for centuries stamped shame on
honest labour--crowned infamy with honour--made gods of profligates
and dogs of workingmen--ruining their wives--insulting their
mothers--debasing their daughters, and sowing the seeds of madness
in their veins?--Ah, Diane! when I face your father, 'tis not your
husband who should blush for his race.
DIANE.
My father's race is mine.--I forgot its glories, and atoned its wrongs
in marrying you!--But I love, revere, my father still, and have
hoped each day that he would come to love you for your saving care of
me--and grow content to take you as a son.
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