Gnulemah objected, “It loves the air better than the earth!”

“When man begins to fall, he becomes mad, and thinks he is not falling, but that earth is heaven, to which he is rising.  But since earth is not like heaven, infinite, he does not wish others to enjoy it, lest his own pleasure be marred.”

“How can that be?” said the unwilling Gnulemah.  “What can make men so happy on earth as other men?”

“Each wants all power for himself,” rejoined Balder, his voice growing stern as he pursued his theme.  “They want to hurl their fellows out of the world, even to annihilation.  Every moment this hatred is let grow in the heart’s garden, it spreads and strengthens, till it gains dominion and makes men slaves, and madder than before.  Each will be above his rival,—­his enemy! he will be absolute master over him.  And from that resolve is born murder!”

“Why do you tell Gnulemah this?” she asked, lifting her head like a majestic serpent.  But she could not stop him now.  His voice, measured at first, was now driven by emotion.

“Murder comes next; and many a man, had fear or impotence not withheld him, would have done murder a thousand times.  But sometimes the demon leaps up and masters impotence and fear.  The man is drunk with immeasurable selfishness,—­greater than the universe can satisfy; which would fain make one victim after another, till all the human race should be destroyed; and then would it turn against Heaven and God.  Save for man’s mortal frailty, the population of the world would ever and anon be swept away by some giant murderer.

“Wickedness grows faster, the wickeder it is; he who has been wicked once will easily be so again,—­the more easily as his crime was great.  Even though through all his mortal life he sin no more, yet his drift is thitherward!  Only the air of Heaven breathing through his soul after death can make him pure.”

Balder was speaking out all the gloom and terror which had been silently gathering within him since his fatal night.  As he spoke, his mind expanded, and perceived things before unknown.  As the reasons for condemnation multiplied, he did but push on the harder, striking at each tender spot in his own armor.  And as the day turned fatally against him, his face looked great and heroic, and his voice sounded almost triumphant.

Thus far, he had only generalized; now, he was come to his own plight.  On several points he had been painfully in doubt:  whether he had done the deed in self-defence; whether he had meant to do it; whether it had not been a blind, mad accident, since swollen by fevered imagination into the likeness of wilful crime.  But against such doubts arrayed itself the ineffaceable memory of that wild joy which had filled his soul, when he had felt his enemy in his power!  Had the man survived, Balder might still have doubted; being dead, doubts were but cowardly sophistry.