Never, were it when defending Dieppe-Heaume against the pitiless hate of the Assassins of Saroumand and their flaming barbs, never, I say, had Meurtrier Morrie seen the genie of terror shake the foundations of the casinos of Rohan with such sinister fires. He recoiled in dread. More pregnant than Ungolianne was the silence that followed.
The Count raised his pallid head. "See," he said, "see how the Valards punish the coldest and most boastful of men, be he endowed with the Ring of Rings. I who watched, impassible and slightly curious, the unfolding of that lugubrious tragedy; I who, like Melcoeur belaughing the fate of Turin, from his stepping on the foot of Finduilette during the New Year's Ball of Nargot-Rond to the scandal that extinguished the Hurinids for ever; behold that I, the biter, in turn feel myself bitten by the serpent that, like Glaurond, is so fashionable yet so deadly, and bitten in the heart! The hawk under the eagle's foot, the spider caught in an intolerably boring soirée!"
Morrie uttered a low moan.
"Enough of such laments," continued the Count. "Be strong, be full of hope, for I am here for you."
Morrie shook his head sadly.
