Tom went to Campbell that night, and apprised him of the fact. "Those words of yours went through him, sir, like a Minié bullet. I was afraid of what would happen when I heard them."
"So was I, the moment after they were spoken. But, sir, I felt a power upon me,—you may think it a fancy,—that there was no resisting."
"I dare impute no fancies, when I hear such truth and reason as you spoke upon that stone, sir."
"Then you do not blame me?" asked Campbell, with a subdued, almost deprecatory voice, such as Thurnall had never heard in him before.
"The man deserved to die, and he died, sir. It is well that there are some means left on earth of punishing offenders whom the law cannot touch."
"It is an awful responsibility."
"Not more awful than killing a man in battle, which we both have done, sir, and yet have felt no sting of conscience."
"An awful responsibility still. Yet what else is life made up of, from morn to night, but of deeds which may earn heaven or hell?… Well, as he did to others, so was it done to him. God forgive him! At least, our cause will be soon tried and judged: there is little fear of my not meeting him again—soon enough." And Campbell, with a sad smile, lay back in his chair and was silent.
"My dear sir," said Tom, "allow me to remind you, after this excitement comes a collapse; and that is not to be trifled with just now. Medicine I dare not give you. Food I must."
Campbell shook his head.