"Whisky," repeated the other. "He knew that while it had dominion over him he would be the plaything of—anything. For two years he went where he could not get it."
"Where?"
"Some time he will tell you himself—that and other things. But he fought it, and he mastered it, not for love, but for something different."
"What?"
"Can't you guess? Think of the kind of man Radford Leicester was, Winfield. What do you think would be his motive?"
Winfield was silent.
"When you get down to the bedrock of this little human nature of ours, Winfield, you find that the same elemental passions exist, no matter what be our race or our country. Shakespeare knew it when he conceived the character of Shylock, and when he wrote Othello. What do you think Radford Leicester would want to live for?"
"You love her still?"
"Love her! As much as Shylock loved Antonio, my friend; as much as any other man loves one who has lifted him into heaven only to hurl him into hell."
"Then you do not love her?"