‘And yet I have heard of you, Colonel, as a duellist,’ said Gotthold.
‘A different thing, sir,’ replied the soldier. ‘Professional etiquette. And I trust without unchristian feeling.’
Presently after the Colonel fell into a deep sleep and his companions looked upon each other, smiling.
‘An odd fish,’ said Gotthold.
‘And a strange guardian,’ said the Prince. ‘Yet what he said was true.’
‘Rightly looked upon,’ mused Gotthold, ‘it is ourselves that we cannot forgive, when we refuse forgiveness to our friend. Some strand of our own misdoing is involved in every quarrel.’
‘Are there not offences that disgrace the pardoner?’ asked Otto. ‘Are there not bounds of self-respect?’
‘Otto,’ said Gotthold, ‘does any man respect himself? To this poor waif of a soldier of fortune we may seem respectable gentlemen; but to ourselves, what are we unless a pasteboard portico and a deliquium of deadly weaknesses within?’
‘I? yes,’ said Otto; ‘but you, Gotthold—you, with your interminable industry, your keen mind, your books—serving mankind, scorning pleasures and temptations! You do not know how I envy you.’
‘Otto,’ said the Doctor, ‘in one word, and a bitter one to say: I am a secret tippler. Yes, I drink too much. The habit has robbed these very books, to which you praise my devotion, of the merits that they should have had. It has spoiled my temper. When I spoke to you the other day, how much of my warmth was in the cause of virtue? how much was the fever of last night’s wine? Ay, as my poor fellow-sot there said, and as I vaingloriously denied, we are all miserable sinners, put here for a moment, knowing the good, choosing the evil, standing naked and ashamed in the eye of God.’