speare," he said modestly.

The juxtaposition of Dea added to the indescribable effect produced by
Gwynplaine. Her white face by the side of the gnome represented what
might have been called divine astonishment. The audience regarded Dea
with a sort of mysterious anxiety. She had in her aspect the dignity of
a virgin and of a priestess, not knowing man and knowing God. They saw
that she was blind, and felt that she could see. She seemed to stand on
the threshold of the supernatural. The light that beamed on her seemed
half earthly and half heavenly. She had come to work on earth, and to
work as heaven works, in the radiance of morning. Finding a hydra, she
formed a soul. She seemed like a creative power, satisfied but
astonished at the result of her creation; and the audience fancied that
they could see in the divine surprise of that face desire of the cause
and wonder at the result. They felt that she loved this monster. Did she
know that he was one? Yes; since she touched him. No; since she
accepted him. This depth of night and this glory of day united, formed
in the mind of the spectator a chiaroscuro in which appeared endless
perspectives. How much divinity exists in the germ, in what manner the
penetration of the soul into matter is accomplished, how the solar ray
is an umbilical cord, how the disfigured is transfigured, how the
deformed becomes heavenly--all these glimpses of mysteries added an
almost cosmical emotion to the convulsive hilarity produced by
Gwynplaine. Without going too deep--for spectators do not like the
fatigue of seeking below the surface--something more was understood than
was perceived. And this strange spectacle had the transparency of an
avatar.

As to Dea, what she felt cannot be expressed by human words. She knew
that she was in the midst of a crowd, and knew not what a crowd was. She
heard a murmur, that was all. For her the crowd was but a breath.
Generations are passing breaths. Man respires, aspires, and expires. In
that crowd Dea felt herself alone, and shuddering as one hanging over a
precipice. Suddenly, in this trouble of innocence in distress, prompt to
accuse the unknown, in her dread of a possible fall, Dea, serene
notwithstanding, and superior to the vague agonies of peril, but
inwardly shuddering at her isolation, found confidence and support. She
had seized her thread of safety in the universe of shadows; she put her
hand on the powerful head of Gwynplaine.

Joy unspeakab