nscience pointing each one of them out to us. Which shall we
take? Change our direction, remain where we are, advance, go back? What
are we to do? That there should be cross-roads in conscience is strange
enough; but responsibility may be a labyrinth. And when a man contains
an idea, when he is the incarnation of a fact--when he is a symbolical
man, at the same time that he is a man of flesh and blood--is not the
responsibility still more oppressive? Thence the care-laden docility and
the dumb anxiety of Gwynplaine; thence his obedience when summoned to
take his seat. A pensive man is often a passive man. He had heard what
he fancied was the command of duty itself. Was not that entrance into a
place where oppression could be discussed and resisted the realization
of one of his deepest aspirations? When he had been called upon to
speak--he the fearful human scantling, he the living specimen of the
despotic whims under which, for six thousand years, mankind has groaned
in agony--had he the right to refuse? Had he the right to withdraw his
head from under the tongue of fire descending from on high to rest upon
him?

In the obscure and giddy debate of conscience, what had he said to
himself? This: "The people are a silence. I will be the mighty advocate
of that silence; I will speak for the dumb; I will speak of the little
to the great--of the weak to the powerful. This is the purpose of my
fate. God wills what He wills, and does it. It was a wonder that
Hardquanonne's flask, in which was the metamorphosis of Gwynplaine into
Lord Clancharlie, should have floated for fifteen years on the ocean, on
the billows, in the surf, through the storms, and that all the raging of
the sea did it no harm. But I can see the reason. There are destinies
with secret springs. I have the key of mine, and know its enigma. I am
predestined; I have a mission. I will be the poor man's lord; I will
speak for the speechless with despair; I will translate inarticulate
remonstrance; I will translate the mutterings, the groans, the murmurs,
the voices of the crowd, their ill-spoken complaints, their
unintelligible words, and those animal-like cries which ignorance and
suffering put into men's mouths. The clamour of men is as inarticulate
as the howling of the wind. They cry out, but they are understood; so
that cries become equivalent to silence, and silence with them means
throwing down their arms. This forced disarmament calls for help. I will
be the