murder on behalf of religion. Well, well my religion is a little
respect for humanity, and----"

"Excuse me," cut in Turnbull, suddenly and fiercely, pointing
towards the pawnbroker's next door. "Don't you own that shop?"

"Why--er--yes," said Gordon.

"And don't you own that shop?" repeated the secularist, pointing
backward to the pornographic bookseller.

"What if I do?"

"Why, then," cried Turnbull, with grating contempt. "I will leave
the religion of humanity confidently in your hands; but I am
sorry I troubled you about such a thing as honour. Look here, my
man. I do believe in humanity. I do believe in liberty. My father
died for it under the swords of the Yeomanry. I am going to die
for it, if need be, under that sword on your counter. But if
there is one sight that makes me doubt it it is your foul fat
face. It is hard to believe you were not meant to be ruled like a
dog or killed like a cockroach. Don't try your slave's philosophy
on me. We are going to fight, and we are going to fight in your
garden, with your swords. Be still! Raise your voice above a
whisper, and I run you through the body."

Turnbull put the bright point of the sword against the gay
waistcoat of the dealer, who stood choking with rage and fear,
and an astonishment so crushing as to be greater than either.