"
"Thus think the children of clay in their ignorance," said: the Dwarf,
smiling maliciously, "and thus they speak in their folly. Have you
marked the young cub of a wild cat that has been domesticated, how
sportive, how playful, how gentle,--but trust him with your game, your
lambs, your poultry, his inbred ferocity breaks forth; he gripes, tears,
ravages, and devours."
"Such is the animal's instinct," answered Earnscliff; "but what has that
to do with Hobbie?"
"It is his emblem--it is his picture," retorted the Recluse. "He is
at present tame, quiet, and domesticated, for lack of opportunity to
exercise his inborn propensities; but let the trumpet of war sound--let
the young blood-hound snuff blood, he will be as ferocious as the
wildest of his Border ancestors that ever fired a helpless peasant's
abode. Can you deny, that even at present he often urges you to take
bloody revenge for an injury received when you were a boy?"--Earnscliff
started; the Recluse appeared not to observe his surprise, and
proceeded--"The trumpet WILL blow, the young blood-hound WILL lap blood,
and I will laugh and say, For this I have preserved thee!" He paused,
and continued,--"Such are my cures;--their object, their purpose,
perpetuating the mass of misery, and playing even in this desert my
part in the general tragedy.
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