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"The dastard coward, blackguard Hell-hatched hounds!" roared the old man, shaking his impotent fist. Then he funnelled his hands and shouted the lad's name. It happened in the twinkling of an eye. The man in the sheep-skin-chaps clubbed his rifle at the galloping pony. The pinto reared, flung back, pitched over the edge of the Rim Rocks.
The end of the years of peril; the end of that fear gnawing always at his heart that she might never live to come out into the sunlight again; the end of this dual life he led; the return to a normal existence where surroundings like the present, where the dens and dives of the underworld, the secret rookeries nursing their hell-hatched crimes, the taint and smell of evil, and the reek of soul-filth would be hereafter no more than a memory!
"The most grand and blasphemous heresies that are in the world, the mystery of iniquity and the kingdom of Antichrist, depend upon it." "The hell-hatched doctrine of th' immortal soul Discovered makes the hungry Furies howl, And teare their snakey haire, with grief appaled To see their error-leading doctrine quailed, Hell undermined and Purgatory blown Up in the air."
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