asweller, who was the
first to come, and who should have entered the college with an heroic
grandeur,--how could I even desire any other to immure himself? how
persuade such men as Barnes, or Tallowax, or that pettifogger Exors,
to be led quietly up through the streets of the city? "And you?" I
asked again.

"It is for you to decide."

The agony of that moment! But I think that I did right. Though my
very heart was bleeding, I know that I did right. "For the sake
of the benefits which are to accrue to unknown thousands of your
fellow-creatures, it is your duty to obey the law." This I said in
a low voice, still holding him by the hand. I felt at the moment a
great love for him,--and in a certain sense admiration, because he
had so far conquered his fear of an unknown future as to promise to
do this thing simply because he had said that he would do it. There
was no high feeling as to future generations of his fellow-creatures,
no grand idea that he was about to perform a great duty for the
benefit of mankind in general, but simply the notion that as he had
always advocated my theory as my friend, he would not now depart from
it, let the cost to himself be what it might. He answered me only by
drawing away his hand. But I felt that in his heart he accused me
of cruelty, and of mad adherence to a theory. "Should it not be so,
Crasweller?"

"As you please, President."

"But should it not be so?" Then, at great length, I went over once
again all my favourite arguments, and endeavoured with the whole
strength of my eloquence to reach his mind. But I knew, as I was
doing so, that that was all in vain. I had succeeded,--or perhaps Eva
had done so,--in inducing him to repudiate the falsehood by which he
had endeavoured to escape. But I had not in the least succeeded in
making him see the good which would come from his deposition. He was
ready to become a martyr, because in years back he had said that he
would do so. He had now left it for me to decide whether he should
be called upon to perform his promise; and I, with an unfeeling
pertinacity, had given the case against him. That was the light in
which Mr Crasweller looked at it. "You do not think that I am cruel?"
I asked.

"I do," said Crasweller. "You ask the question, and I answer you. I
do think that you are cruel. It concerns life and death,--that is a
matter of course,--and it is the life and death of your most intimate
friend, of Eva's father, of him who years s