I
had been brought up in a religious family, and so it seemed quite
natural to me that while that hand lay on my head, the throbbing and
whirling should cease, and likewise the fear. I became perfectly
quiet, and content to sit under the friendly spell. "Why were you
crying?" asked the voice, at last.
I answered, hesitatingly, "I think it was humiliation."
"Is it something you have done?"
"No. Something that was done to me."
"But how can a man be humiliated by the act of another?"
I saw what he meant; and I was not humiliated any more.
The stranger spoke again. "A mob," he said, "is a blind thing, worse
than madness. It is the beast in man running away with his master."
I thought to myself: how can he know what has happened to me? But
then I reflected, perhaps he saw them drive me into the church! I
found myself with a sudden, queer impulse to apologize for those
soldier boys. "We had some terrible fighting," I cried. "And you
know what wars do--to the minds of the people, I mean."
"Yes," said the stranger, "I know, only too well.
Pages:
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27