Old man! unworthy to be called the father of Tiriel’s race

“Old man! unworthy to be called the father of Tiriel’s race! For every one of those thy wrinkles, each of those grey hairs, Are cruel as death, and as obdurate as the devouring pit! Why should thy sons care for thy curses, thou accursed man? Were we not slaves till we rebelled? Who cares for Tiriel’s curse? His blessing was a cruel curse; his curse may be a blessing.”

He ceased. The aged man raised up his right hand to the heavens; His left supported Myratana, shrinking in pangs of death. The orbs of his large eyes he opened, and thus his voice went forth:—