He spoke as calmly as he could, making his appeal to reason and moral sense; but, in reality, every word was charged with electric feeling.

“I am sorry for her!” cried Marcella, passionately.  “But, after all, how can one feel for the oppressor, or those connected with him, as one does for the victim?” He shook his head, protesting against the word, but she rushed on.  “You do know—­for I told you yesterday—­how under the shelter of this hateful game system Westall made Kurd’s life a burden to him when he was a young man—­how he had begun to bully him again this past year.  We had the same sort of dispute the other day about that murder in Ireland.  You were shocked that I would not condemn the Moonlighters who had shot their landlord from behind a hedge, as you did.  You said the man had tried to do his duty, and that the murder was brutal and unprovoked.  But I thought of the system—­of the memories in the minds of the murderers.  There were excuses—­he suffered for his father—­I am not going to judge that as I judge other murders.  So, when a Czar of Russia is blown up, do you expect one to think only of his wife and children?  No!  I will think of the tyranny and the revolt; I will pray, yes, pray that I might have courage to do as they did!  You may think me wild and mad.  I dare say.  I am made so.  I shall always feel so!”

She flung out her words at him, every limb quivering under the emotion of them.  His cool, penetrating eye, this manner she had never yet known in him, exasperated her.

“Where was the tyranny in this case?” he asked her quietly.  “I agree with you that there are murders and murders.  But I thought your point was that here was neither murder nor attack, but only an act of self-defence.  That is Hurd’s plea.”

She hesitated and stumbled.  “I know,” she said, “I know.  I believe it.  But, even if the attack had been on Hurd’s part, I should still find excuses, because of the system, and because of Westall’s hatefulness.”

He shook his head again.

“Because a man is harsh and masterful, and uses stinging language, is he to be shot down like a dog?”

There was a silence.  Marcella was lashing herself up by thoughts of the deformed man in his cell, looking forward after the wretched, unsatisfied life, which was all society had allowed him, to the violent death by which society would get rid of him—­of the wife yearning her heart away—­of the boy, whom other human beings, under the name of law, were about to separate from his father for ever.  At last she broke out thickly and indistinctly: 

“The terrible thing is that I cannot count upon you—­that now I cannot make you feel as I do—­feel with me.  And by-and-by, when I shall want your help desperately, when your help might be everything—­I suppose it will be no good to ask it.”

He started, and bending forward he possessed himself of both her hands—­her hot trembling hands—­and kissed them with a passionate tenderness.