The strain of generations, the tradition of the race without a country was stronger than the revolt in his soul.

He was young, his blood was hot and brawling in his veins, he was all carnal, with the superior intelligence of the trained animal, but custom was stronger than all.

He knew now that whatever he might do, some time, not far, his doom would fall upon him suddenly, as a wind shoots up a ravine from the desert, or a nightbird rises from the dark.
He set his feet stubbornly, and raised his sullen face and fanatical eyes.

The light of morning was creeping through the starshine, and his features showed plainly.
"I am your daughter's husband," he said.

"Nothing can change that.