All his dignity and arrogance had vanished, and the chair creaked under him. His brown beard, usually so neatly trimmed, looked ragged now, and his eyes, which Lyman had thought were full of sharp and cutting inquiry, now looked dull and questionless. "I throw myself upon your mercy," he repeated.
"Then, sir, you knock my props from under me," Lyman replied. "I am not equipped with that firmness which men call justice. Nature sometimes makes sport of a man by giving him a heart. And what does it mean? It means that he shall suffer at the hands of other men, and that when his hour for revenge has come, his over-grown heart rises up and commands him to be merciful. McElwin, I ought to publish you—I ought to tell your wife and daughter that you have conspired with ruffians to have me whipped from the town, but I will not. You may go now."
The banker's arrogance flew back to him. "You may go" were words that pierced him like a three-pronged fork, but he controlled himself, for now his judgment was stronger than his dignity. He arose and stepped up close to Lyman. "I am under deep obligations to you," he said. "You are a kind and generous man."
"Why don't you say that you are thankful to find me a fool?"
McElwin took no notice of this remark. "And I hope that I may be able to do something for you," he said. Still he stood there, as if he had not struck the proper note. "Do something for you. And if you need—need money, I shall be glad to let you have it."
"Oh, you couldn't get away without mentioning your god-essence, could you? Good day."