It was then that the elder Giant, who had a flowing gray beard,
raised his thoughtful eyes to his companion's face, and in a grave
and solemn voice addressed him thus:
FIRST NIGHT OF THE GIANT CHRONICLES
Turning towards his companion the elder Giant uttered these words
in a grave, majestic tone:
'Magog, does boisterous mirth beseem the Giant Warder of this
ancient city? Is this becoming demeanour for a watchful spirit
over whose bodiless head so many years have rolled, so many changes
swept like empty air - in whose impalpable nostrils the scent of
blood and crime, pestilence, cruelty, and horror, has been familiar
as breath to mortals - in whose sight Time has gathered in the
harvest of centuries, and garnered so many crops of human pride,
affections, hopes, and sorrows? Bethink you of our compact. The
night wanes; feasting, revelry, and music have encroached upon our
usual hours of solitude, and morning will be here apace. Ere we
are stricken mute again, bethink you of our compact.'
Pronouncing these latter words with more of impatience than quite
accorded with his apparent age and gravity, the Giant raised a long
pole (which he still bears in his hand) and tapped his brother
Giant rather smartly on the head; indeed, the blow was so smartly
administered, that the latter quickly withdrew his lips from the
cask, to which they had been applied, and, catching up his shield
and halberd, assumed an attitude of defence.
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