“True,” he said at last; “true, or true in part. What are we?—what are we?” and so Pauline’s philosophy seemed to reconcile itself with one of his favourite dogmas, but it had not quite the same meaning which it had for him ten years ago. “Besides,” said Caillaud, “we hate Liverpool and all his crew. When I think of that speech at the opening of Parliament I become violent. There it is; I have stuck it up over the mantelpiece: “_Deeply as I lament the pressure of these evils upon the country_, _I am sensible that they are of a nature not to admit of an immediate remedy_. _But whilst I observe with peculiar satisfaction the fortitude with which so many privations have been borne_, _and the active benevolence which has been employed to mitigate them_, _I am persuaded that the great sources of our national prosperity are essentially unimpaired_; _and I entertain a confident expectation that the native energy of the country will at no distant period surmount all the difficulties in which we are involved_.” “My God,” continued Caillaud, “I could drive a knife into the heart of the man who thus talks!” “No murder, Caillaud,” said Zachariah. “Well, no. What is it but a word? Let us say sacrifice. Do you call the death of your Charles a murder? No; and the reason why you do not is what? Not that it was decreed by a Court. There have been many murders decreed by Courts according to law. Was not the death of your Jesus Christ a murder? Murder means death for base, selfish ends. What said Jesus—that He came to send a sword? Of course He did. Every idea is a sword. What a God He was! He was the first who ever cared for the people—for the real people, the poor, the ignorant, the fools, the weak-minded, the slaves. The Greeks and Romans thought nothing of these. I salute thee, O Thou Son of the People!” and Caillaud took down a little crucifix which, strange to say, always hung in his room, and reverently inclined himself to it. “A child of the people,” he continued, “in everything, simple, foolish, wise, ragged, Divine, martyred Hero.” Zachariah was not astonished at this melodramatic display, for he knew Caillaud well; and although this was a little more theatrical than anything he had ever seen before, it was not out of keeping with his friend’s character. Nor was it insincere, for Caillaud was not an Englishman. Moreover, there is often more insincerity in purposely lowering the expression beneath the thought, and denying the thought thereby, than in a little exaggeration. Zachariah, although he was a Briton, had no liking for that hypocrisy which takes a pride in reducing the extraordinary to the commonplace, and in forcing an ignoble form upon that which is highest. The conversation went no further. At last Caillaud said: “Come, Pauline, a tune; we have not had one for a long time.”