“Very well, Man, I lay my cause before that Power—do you the same. If I am wrong I will go back to earth to be tortured by you and yours again. If, however, I am right, you shall abide the judgment of the Power, and I ask that It will make of you—a hunted hare!” Now when he heard these awful words—for they were awful—no less, the Red-faced Man grew much disturbed. He hummed and he hawed, and shifted his feet about. At last he said— “You must admit that while you lived you had a first-class time under my protection. Lots of turnips to eat and so forth.” “A first-class time!” the Hare answered with withering scorn. “What sort of a time would you have had if some one had shot you all over the back and you must creep away to die of pain and starvation? How would you have enjoyed it if, from day to day, you had been forced to live in terror of cunning monsters, who at any hour might appear to hurt you in some new fashion? Do you suppose that animals cannot feel fear, and is continual fear the kind of friend that gives them a ‘first-class time’?” To this last argument the Man seemed able to find no answer. “Mr. Hare,” he said humbly, “we are all fallible. Although I never thought to find myself in the position of having to do so, I will admit that I may possibly have been mistaken in my views and treatment of you and your kind, and indeed of other creatures. If so, I apologise for any, ah—temporary inconvenience I may have caused you. I can do no more.” “Come, Hare,” I interposed, “that’s handsome; perhaps you might let bygones be bygones.” “Apologise!” exclaimed the Hare. “After all I have suffered I do not think it is enough. At the very least, Mahatma, he should say that he is heartily ashamed and sorry.” “Well, well,” said the Man, “it’s no use making two bites of a cherry. I am sorry, truly sorry for all the pain and terror I have brought on you. If that won’t do let’s go up and settle the matter, and if I’ve been wrong I’ll try to bear the consequences like a gentleman. Only, Mr. Hare, I hope that you will not wish to put your case more strongly against me than you need.” “Not I, Man. I know now that you only erred because the truth had not been revealed to you—because you did not understand. All that I will ask, if I can, is that you may be allowed to tell this truth to other men.” “Well, I am glad to say I can’t do that, Hare.” “Don’t be so sure,” I broke in; “it’s just the kind of thing which might be decreed—a generation or two hence when the world is fit to listen to you.” But he took no heed, or did not comprehend me, and went on—