“Gain! Who spoke of gain? Are you a Jew peddler or an English gentleman?” cried Donald.
“They call me dissolute, gambler, profligate. These be hard names, but I have earned them all. I make no apologies and offer no excuses. As I have lived my life, so have I lived it. For buttered phrases I have no taste. Call me libertine, or call me man of fashion; ’tis all one. My evil nature—C’est plus fort que moi. At least I have not played the hypocrite. No canting sighs! No lapses to morality and prayers! No vices smugly hidden! The plain straight road to hell taken at a gallop!” So, with chin in hand and dark eyes lit by the flickering flame, this roué and sentimentalist philosophized.
“And Montagu?” cried the Gael, harking back to his prosaic text.
“Has made his bed and he must lie in it.”
“By Heaven, who ruined him and made an outlaw of him? Who drove him to rebellion?”
“You imply that I strewed his bed with nettles. Perhaps. ’Tis well my shoulders are broad, else they could not bear all that is laid upon them.”
“You would never be letting a petty private grudge influence you?”
Volney turned, stung to the quick.
“You go too far, Captain Macdonald. Have I given bonds to save this fool from the consequences of his folly? I cherish no hatred toward him, but I play no Jonathan to his David. Egad, it were a pretty rôle for me to essay! You would cast me for a part full of heroics, the moving of heaven and earth to save my dearest enemy. Thank you, I am not for it. Neither for nor against him will I lift a hand. There is no malice in my heart toward this poor condemned young gentleman. If he can win free I shall be glad, even though his gain is my loss, but further than that I will not go. He came between me and the thing I most desired on earth. Shall I help him to the happiness which will condemn me to misery?”
For an instant the habitual veil of mockery was snatched aside and the tortured soul of the man leaped from his burning eyes.