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On that night, I but obeyed the accursed bidding of the blackest and most atrocious monster that pollutes Jove’s pure air by his breath!" "Bidding," he exclaimed, starting back in horror, "Catiline’s bidding?" "My father’s," answered the miserable girl. "My own father’s bidding!" "Ye gods! ye gods! His own daughter’s purity!" "Purity!" she replied, with a smile of sad bitter irony.
In the footsteps of du Comte follows Bacon, in his De Sapientia Veterum; to the moral and physical allegories he adds political ones, as when Jove’s struggle with Typhoeus is made to symbolise a wise ruler’s treatment of a rebellion.
And, after all, the fellow must die for his religion, rather than put a few grains of golden incense on the altar of great Jove. Jove’s the god for me; a glorious, handsome, curly god—but they are all good, all the gods are good. There’s Bacchus, he’s a good, comfortable god, though a sly, treacherous fellow—a treacherous fellow.
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