The governor almost shrugged his shoulders.
“And don’t you mean to do anything at all, then?” cried the bishop. “Are not the laws made to protect us and our property?”
“The laws? Yes, if you please. They are made to protect you, but I am not made to protect you–that is, you alone. The office of governor is made that the executive may protect not only you, but all men. Do you think I would be protecting these poor, misguided people if I called out the militia to shoot them down in the streets? My dear bishop, I cannot undertake to do that until there is absolutely nothing else to be done. Human life is too valuable for that.”
The bishop was staggered for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said, “that I want that the troops should actually fire upon the mob.”
“Then what do you want?” said the governor.
“I would suggest that the presence of the troops might overawe them.”
Governor Pilate shook his head and smiled. “That can no longer be done,” he said. “It has been tried, but it has never succeeded. It must be fire and blood or nothing. No, my dear bishop,” he continued, “you people who are all calling so loudly upon me through the press and the post”–here he laid his hand upon a great packet of letters upon the desk–“you who are so calling upon me to take the law into my own hands and to execute it to your liking for the instant suppression of the rioting–you do not take into consideration the responsibility of my position. You see but one side of the question; I see both sides. I am not only governor of a part of the community such as yourself; I am also governor of the humbler classes of the commonwealth as well. I must consider them equally with you and your kind. I have no right to side myself with you and strike against them. I must stand between you and keep you apart from one another. I may sympathize with you–yes; but I cannot sympathize so far as to do violence against these poor, misguided people. I must hold my hand until nothing else remains to be done than to kill them.”
“I don’t think I understand your position,” said Gilderman, striking in. “It seems to me that there is a right and a wrong, and that it is right to do right and wrong to do wrong. It does not seem to me to be right that the violent and the vicious should be allowed to work their wills upon the peaceful and the innocent.”
“I am sorry that you can’t understand my position,” said the governor, who had turned to Gilderman when he began speaking. “It is very plain to me, Mr. Gilderman. Suppose I should act hastily in this matter and make a mistake. All the blame of that mistake would fall upon me and upon no one else. It does not require any courage for you and those other gentlemen and ladies who write to me, to urge that I should at once act, and act violently, in this matter. To so advise does not take any courage; but it does take a great deal of courage for me to do such a thing upon my own responsibility. Consider the blame that would fall upon me if I should err in such a matter as this. I don’t think I care over much for the opinion of other men, but even I do not care to take unnecessary blame.”
“But surely no blame can attach to you for merely putting a stop to rioting.”