A wrangle.
"And who is my neighbour?" muttered Rumbold, as if speaking to himself, and still keeping his eye moodily fixed on the turgid water. "Answer me that, Lawrence Lee."
"Who is not?" replied Lee, repressing a yawn, but with a cheery smile. "I take it, we're neighbours all. Everything that breathes; from old Shock here"—and he bestowed a friendly pull on the grizzled ears of the sheep dog, who stood poking his cold nose into his master's hand—"up to the king himself. What's the matter, Master Rumbold?" for the maltster started and bit his nether lip, as if in some sudden pain.
"Nothing, boy," he said. "What should be?"
"The king himself—God bless him!" continued Lee, waxing unusually eloquent, for ordinarily he was not a man of many words. "And that if we do—"
"Do, do!" cried Rumbold, wincing again. "The old story. Always with your sort. And faith may go to the wall. Well, if we do what forsooth?" he added, not without curiosity.
"Nay, if it please you better," answered Lawrence good-humouredly, "for it is all one;—if we don't do harm, and work no evil against any man:"—
"Upon him who doeth evil, evil must be done," said Rumbold in deep melancholy tones.
"That," returned Lawrence, recoiling a pace and gazing in perplexity at his companion, "that was not the teaching, Master Rumbold, of Him who died for all men. I doubt 'tis the same as if one should say, Evil must be done that good may come."
"Ay," muttered Rumbold, folding his arms upon his breast and setting his lips firmly, "it must."