id Aram; "are we at all times ourselves? Are the passions
never our masters? You maddened me into anger; behold, I am now calm:
the subjects discussed between myself and you, are of life and death;
let us approach them with our senses collected and prepared. What,
Houseman, are you bent upon your own destruction, as well as mine, that
you persevere in courses which must end in a death of shame?"

"What else can I do? I will not work, and I cannot live like you in a
lone wilderness on a crust of bread. Nor is my name like yours, mouthed
by the praise of honest men: my character is marked; those who once knew
me, shun now. I have no resource for society, (for I cannot face myself
alone,) but in the fellowship of men like myself, whom the world has
thrust from its pale. I have no resource for bread, save in the pursuits
that are branded by justice, and accompanied with snares and danger.
What would you have me do?"

"Is it not better," said Aram, "to enjoy peace and safety upon a small
but certain pittance, than to live thus from hand to mouth? vibrating
from wealth to famine, and the rope around your neck, sleeping and
awake? Seek your relation; in that quarter, you yourself said your
character was not branded: live with him, and know the quiet of easy
days, and I promise you, that if aught be in my power to make your lot
more suitable to your wants, so long as you lead the life of honest men,
it shall be freely yours. Is not this better, Houseman, than a short and
sleepless career of dread?"

"Aram," answered Houseman, "are you, in truth, calm enough to hear me
speak? I warn you, that if again you forget yourself, and lay hands on
me--" "Threaten not, threaten not," interrupted Aram, "but proceed;
all within me is now still and cold as ice. Proceed without fear of
scruple."

"Be it so; we do not love one another: you have affected contempt for
me--and I--I--no matter--I am not a stone or stick, that I should not
feel. You have scorned me--you have outraged me--you have not assumed
towards me even the decent hypocrisies of prudence--yet now you would
ask of me, the conduct, the sympathy, the forbearance, the concession
of friendship. You wish that I should quit these scenes, where, to my
judgment, a certain advantage waits me, solely that I may lighten your
breast of its selfish fears. You dread the dangers that await me on your
own account. And in my apprehension, you forebode your own doom. You ask
me, nay, not ask,