“Look ye’re, my friend, he was a beast; a man needn’t live in a sty in order to become a pig, and we won’t give him an interment.” So we heaved him into a slag pit among rats and ravels of iron.
And would you believe it, again we saw a man committing crime, crime indeed and a very bad crime.
There was no withstanding Monk; he rose up and slew the man as dead as the poor beast he had tortured.
“God-a-mercy!” I said to him, “it’s a lot of life you’re taking, Mr. Monk.”
And Monk he said: “Life, Michael dear, is the thing we perish by.” He had the most terrible angers and yet was kind, kind; nothing could exceed the greatness of his mind or the vigour of his limbs.
Those were the three combats of Monk, but he was changed from that out. Whenever we came to any habitations now he would not call at back doors, nor go stravaiging in yards for odd pieces to eat, but he would go gallantly into an inn and offer his payment for the things we would like. I could not understand it at all, but he was a great man and a kind.
“Where did you get that treasure?” said I to him after days of it. “Has some noble person given you a gift?”
He did not answer me so I asked him over again. “Eh!”
And Monk he said, “Oh well then, there was a lot of coin in the fob of that feller we chucked in the well.”
I looked very straight at Mr. Monk, very straight at that, but I could not speak the things my mind wanted me to say, and he said very artfully: “Don’t distress yourself, Michael dear, over a little contest between sense and sentiment.”