“And if I were an American patriot, pure and simple,” he replied, “I would answer that it would be no matter if they did, and that Bunker Hill is near enough to keep tyrannicide in countenance. You remember what one of our leading Whigs said in convention many years ago—in the time, when to be a Whig was not to be a Webster Whig, with a fine speech for kidnapping. ‘Why, sir,’ foamed a slaveholder, ‘if your doctrines obtain, our slaves would cut our throats for us.’ ‘And in God’s name,’ said our Whig friend, tossing the words over his shoulder—‘in God’s name, why shouldn’t they!’” “Oh, Harrington, Harrington,” said Emily, shaking her head, “is this you? I did not think John Harrington had the heart to hate any man—not even Lafitte—much less kill him, or see him killed.” “Nor has he,” said Muriel, quickly. “You are right,” said Harrington, calmly; “at least so far as the hating goes. It may be a defect in my organization, but I have never known what it is to hate anybody. I hope I never may. As for killing men, or seeing them killed, that is another matter. I believe that I could do both the one and the other without a pang. This Lafitte—a man in whom there is not one trait worthy to be called human—I could kill him or see him killed without the least regret. It is not his death but his life that should be regretted.” “But, Harrington,” said Emily, “this is impossible. How could you beat a man, much less kill him, without hating him?” “Christ beat the money changers in the temple: Was that hate?” answered Harrington. Emily smiled vaguely. “Well,” she continued, “that is ingenious—but not conclusive. Besides, to beat men is not to kill them. You could hardly kill a man without hating him.” “Xenophon says Socrates shore down a soldier in the battle, and blessed him as he died: Was that hate?” answered Harrington. Emily colored slightly, and looked up smiling into the calm countenance of the speaker. “Death is not the worst fate that may befall a man,” continued Harrington. “If to kill a man were to end his life, we might well hold our hands. But the soul survives the blow that slays the body.” “And to kill a man is only to shell him, Emily,” said Muriel with a smile. “Mercy!” exclaimed Emily, laughing, “what a couple of Robespierres!”