He resolutely revived his idea of the dead man as a thing unfit to
live--just a brute, without a man's healthy instincts--a foul
debauchee, ruining sweet and comely innocence whenever he could get at
it. Such a wretch would be executed by any sensible community. In new
countries they would lynch him as soon as they caught him--"A lot of
chaps like myself would ride off their farms, heft him up on the
nearest tree, and empty their revolvers into him. And it wouldn't be a
murder: it would be a rough and ready execution. Well, I did the job
by myself, without sharing the responsibility with my pals; and I
consider myself an executioner, not a murderer."
He could now always make the hate and horror return and be as strong
as they had ever been, and thus solidify the argument whereby he found
his justification; no mercy is possible for such brutes.
Subconsciously he was always striving to reinforce it; as if the voice
of that logical faculty which he admired as his highest attribute were
always whispering advice, reminding him: "This is your strong point.
It is the only firm ground you stand on. You can't possibly hope to
justify yourself to other people; but if you don't justify yourself to
yourself, then you are truly done for.
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