It was worse. As to killing a man, which would be
a comparatively decent thing to do, well--I have never done that."
"Why should you do it?" she asked in a frightened voice.
"My dear girl, you don't know the sort of life I have been leading in
unexplored countries, in the wilds; it's difficult to give you an idea.
There are men who haven't been in such tight places as I have found
myself in who have had to--to shed blood, as the saying is. Even the
wilds hold prizes which tempt some people; but I had no schemes, no
plans--and not even great firmness of mind to make me unduly obstinate.
I was simply moving on, while the others, perhaps, were going somewhere.
An indifference as to roads and purposes makes one meeker, as it were.
And I may say truly, too, that I never did care, I won't say for life--I
had scorned what people call by that name from the first--but for being
alive. I don't know if that is what men call courage, but I doubt it
very much."
"You! You have no courage?" she protested.
"I really don't know. Not the sort that always itches for a weapon, for
I have never been anxious to use one in the quarrels that a man gets
into in the most innocent way sometimes. The differences for which
men murder each other are, like everything else they do, the most
contemptible, the most pitiful things to look back upon.
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