“Name it.”
“The sense of intolerable wrong!” cried Frank, in vehement tones; “the presence of that foul pair in the home of our ancestors, our own exile, and all the sufferings of the past! Do you think that I can endure this?”
“No—you must have vengeance.”
“No; not vengeance.”
“What then?”
“Justice!” cried Frank, starting to his feet. “Justice—strict, stern, merciless; and that justice means to me all that you mean by vengeance. Let us make war against him from this time forth while life lasts; let us cast him out and get back our own; let us put him into the power of the law, and let that take satisfaction on him for his crimes; let us cast him out and fling him from us to that power which can fittingly condemn. I despise him, and despise his sufferings. His agony will give me no gratification. The anguish that a base nature can suffer is only disgusting to me—he suffers only out of his baseness. To me, and with a thing like that, vengeance is impossible, and justice is enough.”
“At any rate you will have a purpose, and your purpose points to the same result as mine.”
“But how is this possible?” said Frank. “He is strong, and we are weak. What can we do?”
“We can try,” said Louis. “You are ready to undertake any thing. You do not value your life. There is one thing which is before us. It is desperate—it is almost hopeless; but we are both ready to try it.”
“What is that?”