"You might do something else," said Dolly, gazing at the lines of black guns stretching along both sides of the deck, so near to each other, so black, so grim. "How many men does it take to manage each gun? You said three or four might be killed."
"According to the size of the gun. Twelve men for these guns; larger would take fifteen."
Again Dolly meditated; in imagination peopled the solitary place with the active crowd of men which would be there if each gun had twelve gunners, filled the silence with the roar of combined discharges, thought of the dead and wounded; at last turned her eyes to the blue ones that were watching her.
"I wonder if God likes it?" she said.
"Likes what?" said the midshipman in wonder.
"Such work. I don't see how He can."
"How can you help such work? People cannot get along without fighting."
He did not speak carelessly or mockingly or banteringly; rather with a gentle, somewhat deliberate utterance. Yet Dolly was persuaded there was no unmanly softness in him; she never doubted but that he would be ready to do his part in that dreadful work, if it must be done. Moreover, he was paying to this odd little girl a delicate sort of respect and treating her with great consideration. Her confidence, as I said, had been entirely given to him before; and now some gratitude began to mingle with it, along with great freedom to speak her mind.
"I don't think God can like it," she repeated.
"What would you do, then?" he also repeated, smiling. "Let wicked people have their own way?"