She forbade you to do so." "You are right, Dagobert.

We will not cry any more."-- And the orphans dried their eyes.
Dagobert, in the opinion of the devout, would have passed for a very heathen.

In Spain, he had found pleasure in cutting down those monks of all orders and colors, who, bearing crucifix in one hand, and poniard in the other, fought not for liberty--the Inquisition had strangled her centuries ago--but, for their monstrous privileges.

Yet, in forty years, Dagobert had witnessed so many sublime and awful scenes--he had been so many times face to face with death--that the instinct of natural religion, common to every simple, honest heart, had always remained uppermost in his soul.

Therefore, though he did not share in the consoling faith of the two sisters, he would have held as criminal any attempt to weaken its influence.
Seeing them this downcast, he thus resumed: "That's right, my pretty ones: I prefer to hear you chat as you did this morning and yesterday--laughing at times, and answering me when I speak, instead of being so much engrossed with your own talk.