"But I fear, sir," continued Peterby, "that in making him your enemy, you have damned your chances at the very outset, as I told you."
"A race!" said Barnabas again, vastly thoughtful.
"And therefore," added Peterby, leaning nearer in his earnestness, "since you honor me by asking my advice, I would strive with all my power to dissuade you."
"John Peterby—why?"
"Because, in the first place, I know it to be impossible."
"I begin to think not, John."
"Why, then, because—it's dangerous!"
"Danger is everywhere, more or less, John."
"And because, sir, because you—you—" Peterby rose, and stood with bent head and hands outstretched, "because you gave a miserable wretch another chance to live; and therefore I—I would not see you crushed and humiliated. Ah, sir! I know this London, I know those who make up the fashionable world. Sir, it is a heartless world, cruel and shallow, where inexperience is made a mock of—generosity laughed to scorn; where he is most respected who can shoot the straightest; where men seldom stoop to quarrel, but where death is frequent, none the less—and, sir, I could not bear—I—I wouldn't have you cut off thus—!"
Peterby stopped suddenly, and his head sank lower; but as he stood Barnabas rose, and coming to him, took his hand into his own firm clasp.