the which to brush against or attempt to stain means
death to the transgressor or himself; last, and yet first above all
else, he must be brave, and not submit to insult such as thou dost
bear; and 'twould be death for one to strike a blow upon his cheek, as
I now do to thee." And, suiting the action to the word, Harleston gave
him a stinging slap upon the ear that almost caused the other to drop
upon his knees.

My friend's judgment of the knave was right. He was, as all these
blackguards are, a coward through and through. A plenteous supply of
bluster had he, to be sure, and this he commenced to fling at
Harleston. However, he got not far in his list of compliments; for my
friend, losing all patience with this blackguarding knave, took him by
the ear, that now was the colour of a fiery sunset, and, turning him
about, he placed his knee beneath his doublet tail and hurled him upon
his hands and knees among the legs and feet of the surging crowd about.
I had never known Harleston to act thus before, and greatly was I
surprised to see him so ready to pick up a quarrel.

When we left the crowd before the Church and continued on our way I
thought to find him still heated with his indignation. But in this I
had again misjudged this man whose brain seemed balanced with such an
exactness. He was as quiet and unruffled as though he had been but
talking with a priest about some books, of which he was most fond.

"Strange," said he in musing tone, "that men so love to see their
fellows lowered. Why can they not mourn for their sorrows and exult
when others do succeed? Instead of doing this, they glory in another's
fall, and when the downcast tries to regain his feet, cruel and
remorseless blows are heaped upon his head, till the poor creature,
hopeless of success, lies back there where he falls, among the quick
and devouring sands of vice, or other misery. Still he sinks lower,
and, as he disappears, the sands put on their faces of harmlessness and
tempting beauty, to await another victim. And the cold world jeers at
the sufferer's dying struggles, and laughs, and he's soon forgot."

"Why, my friend, thou art quite mournful," I remarked.

"Nay, by my troth, mine heart was never lighter. Misunderstand me not.
The picture that my mind now draws is sad, 'tis true. But verily do I
tell thee, Bradley, mine eye enjoys the sight. What song is there so
sweet as that which telleth to our hearts a tale of woe?"