The excellent Doctor admitted that it was not to be contested.

"And wherefore, sir, should I have sorrow," the Boy resumed, "for
ridding the world of a sordid worm;* of a man whose very soul was dross,
and who never had a feeling for the Truthful and the Beautiful? When I
stood before my uncle in the moonlight, in the gardens of the ancestral
halls of the De Barnwells, I felt that it was the Nemesis come to
overthrow him. 'Dog,' I said to the trembling slave, 'tell me where
thy Gold is. THOU hast no use for it. I can spend it in relieving the
Poverty on which thou tramplest; in aiding Science, which thou knowest
not; in uplifting Art, to which thou art blind. Give Gold, and thou art
free.' But he spake not, and I slew him."

"I would not have this doctrine vulgarly promulgated," said the
admirable chaplain, "for its general practice might chance to do harm.
Thou, my son, the Refined, the Gentle, the Loving and Beloved, the
Poet and Sage, urged by what I cannot but think a grievous error, hast
appeared as Avenger. Think what would be the world's condition, were men
without any Yearning after the Ideal to attempt to reorganize Society,
to redistribute Property, to avenge Wrong."

"A rabble of pigmies scaling Heaven," said the noble though misguided
young Prisoner. "Prometheus was a Giant, and he fell."

"Yes, indeed, my brave youth!" the benevolent Dr. Fuzwig exclaimed,
clasping the Prisoner's marble and manacled hand; "and the Tragedy of
To-morrow will teach the World that Homicide is not to be permitted
even to the most amiable Genius, and that the lover of the Ideal and the
Beautiful, as thou art, my son, must respect the Real likewise."