“I don’t know how much of that tirade is meant to be serious; but to waive the question of the tiger’s morality, do you really—­I will not say sympathize,—­but justify Robespierre, Dominic, St. Just, and the rest of the fanatics who have waded to their ends through blood.”

“He who wills the end, wills the means.”

“A devil’s maxim.”

“But a truth.  What the foolish world shrinks at as bloodthirstiness and cruelty is very often mere force and constancy of intellect.  It is not that fanatics thirst for blood—­far from it,—­but they thirst for the triumph of their cause.  Whatever obstacle lies on their path must be removed; if a torrent of blood is the only thing that will sweep it away—­the torrent must sweep.”

“And sweep with it all the sentiments of pity, mercy, charity, love?”

“No; these sentiments may give a sadness to the necessity; they make the deed a sacrifice, but they cannot prevent the soul from seeing the aim to which it tends.”

“This is detestable doctrine!  It is the sophism which has destroyed families, devastated cities, and retarded the moral progress of the world more than anything else.  No single act of injustice is ever done on this earth but it tends to perpetuate the reign of iniquity.  By the feelings it calls forth it keeps up the native savagery of the heart.  It breeds injustice, partly by hardening the minds of those who assent, and partly by exciting the passion of revenge in those who resist.”

“You are wrong.  The great drag-chain on the car of progress is the faltering inconsistency of man.  Weakness is more cruel than sternness.  Sentiment is more destructive than logic.”

The arrival of Schwanthaler was timely, for my indignation was rising.  The sculptor received us with great cordiality, and in the pleasure of the subsequent hour I got over to some extent the irritation Bourgonef’s talk had excited.

The next day I left Munich for the Tyrol.  My parting with Bourgonef was many degrees less friendly than it would have been a week before.  I had no wish to see him again, and therefore gave him no address or invitation in case he should come to England.  As I rolled away in the Malleposte, my busy thoughts reviewed all the details of our acquaintance, and the farther I was carried from his presence, the more obtrusive became the suspicions which connected him with the murder of Lieschen Lehfeldt.  How, or upon what motive, was indeed an utter mystery.  He had not mentioned the name of Lehfeldt.  He had not mentioned having before been at Nuremberg.  At Heidelberg the tragedy occurred—­or was Heidelberg only a mask?  It occurred to me that he had first ascertained that I had never been at Heidelberg before he placed the scene of his story there.

Thoughts such as these tormented me.  Imagine, then, the horror with which I heard, soon after my arrival at Salzburg, that a murder had been committed at Grosshesslohe—­one of the pretty environs of Munich much resorted to by holiday folk—­corresponding in all essential features with the murder at Nuremberg!  In both cases the victim was young and pretty.  In both cases she was found quietly lying on the ground, stabbed to the heart, without any other traces of violence.  In both cases she was a betrothed bride, and the motive of the unknown assassin a mystery.