and self-consciousness. This passed; he forgot himself, thought only of
his subject, and utterance became quiet, grave, and fluent. He did not
speak as though he were addressing a jury. Gesture was impossible, and
his voice must not carry beyond the blue room. He spoke as to himself,
as giving reasons to a high intelligence for the invalidity of murder.
For an infusion of sentiment and rhetoric he knew he might trust
Mocket's unaided powers, but the basis of the matter he would furnish.
He spoke of murder as the check the savage gives to social order, as the
costliest error, the last injustice, the monstrousness beyond the brute,
the debt without surety, the destruction by a fool of that which he
knows not how to create. He spoke for society, without animus and
without sentiment; in a level voice marshalling fact and example, and
moving unfalteringly toward the doom of the transgressor. Turning to the
case in hand, he wove strand by strand a rope for the guilty wretch in
question; then laid it for the nonce aside and spoke of murder more
deeply with a sombre force and a red glow of imagery. Then followed
three minutes of slow words which laid the finished and tested rope in
the sheriff's hand. Rand's voice ceased, and he lay staring at the
poplar leaves without the window.

Cary laid the pen softly down, sat still and upright in his chair for a
minute, then leaned back with a long breath. "The poor wretch!" he said.

"Poor enough," assented Rand abruptly. "But Nature does not, and Society
must not, think of that. As he brewed, so let him drink, and the measure
that he meted, let it be meted to him again. There is on earth no place
for him." He fell silent again, his eyes upon the dancing leaves.

"You will make your mark," said Cary slowly. "This is more than able
work. You have before you a great future."