Miltoun rose from his seat. “I cannot discuss this,” he said; “I cannot.”
“For her sake, you must. If you give up your public work, you'll spoil her life a second time.”
Miltoun again sat down. At the word 'must' a steely feeling had come to his aid; his eyes began to resemble the old Cardinal's. “Your nature and mine, Courtier,” he said, “are too far apart; we shall never understand each other.”
“Never mind that,” answered Courtier. “Admitting those two alternatives to be horrible, which you never would have done unless the facts had been brought home to you personally—”
“That,” said Miltoun icily, “I deny your right to say.”
“Anyway, you do admit them—if you believe you had not the right to rescue her, on what principle do you base that belief?”
Miltoun placed his elbow on the table, and leaning his chin on his hand, regarded the champion of lost causes without speaking. There was such a turmoil going on within him that with difficulty he could force his lips to obey him.
“By what right do you ask me that?” he said at last. He saw Courtier's face grow scarlet, and his fingers twisting furiously at those flame-like moustaches; but his answer was as steadily ironical as usual.
“Well, I can hardly sit still, my last evening in England, without lifting a finger, while you immolate a woman to whom I feel like a brother. I'll tell you what your principle is: Authority, unjust or just, desirable or undesirable, must be implicitly obeyed. To break a law, no matter on what provocation, or for whose sake, is to break the commandment.”
“Don't hesitate—say, of God.”