Then I said to the owl, "Pray pardon my silly rudeness; I merely obeyed an instinctive feeling, without the least intention of annoying you; on the contrary, it would really grieve me if you doubted the high esteem in which I hold you."
"Where's the good of excuses?" said he, shaking his head; "if you really wish to serve me, take yourself off and leave me in peace."
"I cannot go," said I, "until you pardon my offense."
"And if I did pardon you", rejoined he, "what use would it be? But I'll do no such thing. I cannot forgive you for being a man, or for being here. Begone! you are a miscreant like the rest of your kind."
"You are a miscreant yourself!" retorted I, "and very unjust and distrustful to boot. I never injured the smallest creature—I have been the unfailing defender of birds' nests against children and fowlers. I have incurred the contempt of mankind by my knight-errantry. At least I ought to be treated with common civility by those whom I have loved and protected."
"Oh, well! well! well!" said he, "don't say any more about it. You are young, and seem to be well-meaning enough. I will trust you and rue the indiscretion at my leisure."
"You must have been unfortunate," I remarked respectively, "to have grown so distrustful."
"What's that to you?" he answered shortly; "my wretched story will do you no good if you are destined to remain innocent; and if you are to become like other men, it will not touch you."
"Nay," said I, thinking to tickle his vanity by a neatly turned complement, "it would teach me wisdom and prudence. What less could I learn from the favorite of Minerva and the protector of Athens?" But my Timon's wisdom was proof against assault, and he replied: