at length. 'Don't you know that the dear old man has got a wife and children and that he is....'
'Where are we to find men who have no wives and children?' he interrupted. 'Look here, Maharani, the thing we call pity is, at bottom, only pity for ourselves. We cannot bear to wound our own tender instincts, and so we do not strike at all;—pity indeed! The height of cowardice!'
To hear Sandip's phrases in the mouth of this mere boy staggered me. So delightfully, lovably immature was he,—of that age when the good may still be believed in as good, of that age when one really lives and grows. The Mother in me awoke.
For myself there was no longer good or bad,—only death, beautiful alluring death. But to hear this stripling calmly talk of murdering an inoffensive old man as the right thing to do, made me shudder all over. The more clearly I saw that there was no sin in his heart, the more horrible appeared to me the sin of his words. I seemed to see the sin of the parents visited on the innocent child.
The sight of his great big eyes shining with faith and enthusiasm touched me to the quick. He was going, in his fascination, straight to the jaws of the python, from which, once in, there was no return. How was he to be saved? Why does not my country become, for once, a real Mother,—clasp him to her bosom and cry out: 'Oh, my child, my child, what profits it that you should save me, if so it be that I should fail to save you?'
