"Or if he wanted a text, `Who art thou that judgest another?'" said Lillyston contemptuously. "And I," said Julian, should have said,-- "Let feeble hands iniquitously just, Rake up the relics of the sinful dust, Let Ignorance mock the pang it cannot heal, And Malice brand what Mercy would conceal;-- It matters not!" "And I," said Kennedy, "should have been vehemently inclined to tweak the man's nose." "But what did _you_ say, Mr Admer?" asked Lillyston. "I answered a fool according to his folly. I threw up my eyes and said, `Ah, where, indeed! What a good thing it is that you and I, sir, are not as that publican.'" "I should think he skewered you with a glance, didn't he?" said Kennedy. "No, he was going to _bore_ me with an argument, which I declined." "But you've all cut the question: tell me now, supposing you had known king David, should you have thought worse of him, should you have been cool to him--in a word, should you have _cut_ him after his fall?" "I think not--I mean, I shouldn't have _cut_ him," said Owen. "And yet you would have treated so any ordinary friend." "Not necessarily. But remember that the two best things happened to David which could possibly happen to a man who has committed a crime." "Namely?" "Speedy detection," said Lillyston. "And prompt punishment," added Julian; "but for these there's no knowing what would have become of him." Unsatisfactory as the discussion had been, yet those words rang hauntingly in Kennedy's ears; he could not forget them. During all those first days of happy travel they were with him; with him as they strolled down the gay and lighted Boulevards of Paris; with him beside the quaint fountains of Berne; and the green rushing of the Rhine at Basle; with him amid the scent of pine-cones, and under the dark green umbrage of forest boughs; with him when he caught his first glimpse of the everlasting mountains, and plunged into the clear brightness of the sapphire lake--the thought of speedy detection and prompt punishment. It was no small pleasure to partake in Violet's happiness, and mark the ever fresh delight that lent such a bright look to Cyril's face; but before Kennedy in the midst of enjoyment, the memory of a dishonourable act started like a spectre, and threw a sudden shadow on his brow. He felt its presence when he saw the sun rise from Rigi; it stood by him amid the wreathing mists of Pilatus; it even checked his enthusiasm as they gazed together on the unequalled glories spread beneath the green summit of Monterone, and as their graceful boat made ripples on the moonlit waves of Orta and Lugans. In a word, the conviction of weakness was the only alloying influence to the pleasure of his tour, the one absinthe-drop that lent bitterness to the honeyed wine. It was not only the consciousness of the wrong act and its possible results, but horror at the instability of moral principle which it showed, and a deep fear