So have _you, more,_ Sir, and _worse_ than I, maybe,' cried Devereux, wild again; 'and you come here in your spiritual pride to admonish and to lecture, and to _insult_ a miserable man, who's better, perhaps, than yourself.

You've heard ill of me?
you hear I sometimes drink maybe a glass too much--who does not?
you can drink a glass yourself, Sir; drink more, and show it less than I maybe; and you listen to every damned slander that any villain, to whose vices and idleness you pander with what you call your alms, may be pleased to invent, and you deem yourself charitable; save us from such charity! _Charitable_, and you refuse to deliver my miserable message: hard-hearted Pharisee!' It is plain poor Captain Devereux was not quite himself--bitter, fierce, half-mad, and by no means so polite as he ought to have been.

Alas! as Job says, 'ye imagine to reprove words; and the speeches of one that is desperate, which are as wind.' 'Yes, hard-hearted, unrelenting Pharisee.' The torrent roared on, and the wind was up; it was night and storm with poor Devereux.

'You who pray every day--oh--damnable hypocrisy--lead us not into temptation--you neither care nor ask to what courses your pride and obstinacy are driving me--your fellow-creature.' 'Ah, Captain Devereux, you are angry with me, and yet it's not my doing; the man that is at variance with himself will hardly be at one with others.

You have said much to me that is unjust, and, perhaps, unseemly; but I won't reproach you; your anger and trouble make wild work with your words.