“Now, see here,” interrupted Somerset. “You are ignorant of anything but science, which I can never regard as being truly knowledge; I, sir, have studied life; and allow me to inform you that I have but to raise my hand and voice—here in this street—and the mob——”
“Good God in Heaven, Somerset,” cried Zero, turning deadly white and stopping in his walk, “great God in Heaven, what words are these? Oh, not in jest, not even in jest, should they be used! The brutal mob, the savage passions.... Somerset, for God’s sake, a public-house!”
Somerset considered him with freshly awakened curiosity. “This is very interesting,” said he. “You recoil from such a death?”
“Who would not?” asked the plotter.
“And to be blown up by dynamite,” inquired the young man, “doubtless strikes you as a form of euthanasia?”
“Pardon me,” returned Zero: “I own, and, since I have braved it daily in my professional career, I own it even with pride: it is a death unusually distasteful to the mind of man.”
“One more question,” said Somerset; “you object to Lynch Law? why?”
“It is assassination,” said the plotter calmly; but with eyebrows a little lifted, as in wonder at the question.
“Shake hands with me,” cried Somerset. “Thank God, I have now no ill-feeling left; and though you cannot conceive how I burn to see you on the gallows, I can quite contentedly assist at your departure.”
“I do not very clearly take your meaning,” said Zero, “but I am sure you mean kindly. As to my departure, there is another point to be considered. I have neglected to supply myself with funds; my little all has perished in what history will love to relate under the name of the Golden Square Atrocity; and without what is coarsely if vigorously called stamps, you must be well aware it is impossible for me to pass the ocean.”