“You never did this before,” I said.
“No. I never had it to do.” He was riding beside me, looking down at his saddle-horn.
“I do not think I should ever be able,” I pursued.
Defiance sounded in his answer. “I would do it again this morning.”
“Oh, I don't mean that. It's all right here. There's no other way.”
“I would do it all over again the same this morning. Just the same.”
“Why, so should I—if I could do it at all.” I still thought he was justifying their justice to me.
He made no answer as he rode along, looking all the while at his saddle. But again he passed his hand over his forehead with that frown and shutting of the eyes.
“I should like to be sure I should behave myself if I were condemned,” I said next. For it now came to me—which should I resemble? Could I read the newspaper, and be interested in county elections, and discuss coming death as if I had lost a game of cards? Or would they have to drag me out? That poor wretch in the gray flannel shirt—“It was bad in the stable,” I said aloud. For an after-shiver of it went through me.
A third time his hand brushed his forehead, and I ventured some sympathy.