I looked at the hand, which I took in mine. The bite no doubt had been
sharp; but the hand that lay in my own was that which the Greek sculptor
gives to a gladiator; not large (the extremities are never large in
persons whose strength comes from the just proportion of all the members,
rather than the factitious and partial force which continued muscular
exertion will give to one part of the frame, to the comparative weakening
of the rest), but with the firm-knit joints, the solid fingers, the
finished nails, the massive palm, the supple polished skin, in which we
recognize what Nature designs the human hand to be,--the skilled, swift,
mighty doer of all those marvels which win Nature herself from the
wilderness.

"It is strange," said I, thoughtfully; "but your susceptibility to
suffering confirms my opinion, which is different from the popular
belief,--namely, that pain is most acutely felt by those in whom the
animal organization being perfect, and the sense of vitality exquisitely
keen, every injury or lesion finds the whole system rise, as it were, to
repel the mischief and communicate the consciousness of it to all those
nerves which are the sentinels to the garrison of life. Yet my theory is
scarcely borne out by general fact. The Indian savages must have a health
as perfect as yours; a nervous system as fine,--witness their marvellous
accuracy of ear, of eye, of scent, probably also of touch; yet they are
indifferent to physical pain; or must I mortify your pride by saying that
they have some moral quality defective in you which enables them to rise
superior to it?"

"The Indian savages," said Margrave, sullenly, "have not a health as
perfect as mine, and in what you call vitality--the blissful consciousness
of life--they are as sticks and stones compared to me."