"That was too much for a man of my kidney," he went on. "I brushed aside the young fool who was doing duty on guard, and I followed this American pig down the corridor. I found myself in the chapel, and I hid myself in the gloom behind a pew. Then I overheard things—pretty things, pretty speeches, tales of the American's mercy, how he had saved the King's life because he disliked killing a brave man. Then these two,—the Queen of Grimland and the traitor who should have been immured in the Strafeburg,—kissed each other and were made man and wife by a damned old fool in a cassock."
"Always speak respectfully of the Church, my son," said Bernhardt with exasperating mockery. "I was, myself, one of its most shining ornaments."
"Can nothing rouse you to the seriousness of the situation?" demanded the Captain in despair.
Again Bernhardt sipped. Then he leaned back, and a slow smile spread over his face.
"You don't drink absinthe, do you, Captain?"
"No," replied the other with an expression of disgust.
"It is a strange fluid," went on Bernhardt thoughtfully. "Sometimes it clears the brain, so that one sees with extraordinary distinctness. But sometimes it obfuscates the reasoning powers, so that one cannot distinguish right from wrong. For instance, at the present moment, Herr Trafford's action appears to me not a wicked, but a positively virtuous one. He saved a man from a cruel death and delivers him to freedom instead of torture."
"But the man was Karl!" expostulated Von Hügelweiler.
"I loved Karl," returned Bernhardt, unmoved, "I loved and hated him. You,—not being an absintheur,—cannot understand the curious mental pose that loves and hates the same being at the same time. Also I love Herr Trafford. He got me out of the Strafeburg."
Von Hügelweiler made a gesture of despair. He felt he was talking to a madman, one on whom sense and argument were useless and unavailing.