“Of course,” I argued, “I know what I have done—”
“You can have no idea what you have done. You are too ignorant.”
I bowed my head, prepared to take my punishment. But at once Carpenter's voice softened. “You are a part of Mobland,” he said; “you cannot help yourself. In Mobland it is not possible for even a martyrdom to proceed in an orderly way.”
I gazed at him a moment, bewildered. “What's the good of a martyrdom?” I cried.
“The good is, that men can be moved in no other way; they are in that childish stage of being, where they require blood sacrifice.”
“But what kind of martyrdom!” I argued. “So undignified and unimpressive! To have hot tar smeared over your body, and be hanged by the neck like a common criminal!”
I realized that this last phrase was unfortunate. Said Carpenter: “I am used to being treated as a common criminal.”
“Well,” said I, in a voice of despair, “of course, if you're absolutely bent on being hanged—if you can't think of anything you would prefer—”
I stopped, for I saw that he had covered his face with his hands. In the silence I heard him whisper: “I prayed last night that this cup might pass from me; and apparently my prayer has been answered.”
“Well,” I said, deciding to cheer up, “you see, I have only been playing the part of Providence. Let me play it just a few days longer, until this mob of crazy soldier-boys has got out of town again. I am truly ashamed for them, but I am one of them myself, so I understand them. They really fought and won a war, you see, and they are full of the madness of it, the blind, intense passions—”