The plea against death was that it would antagonise
three-fourths of England, and make a martyr out of a fool. Would it do no
more? Were there no gains to set against that loss? To his surprise he
found himself confessing a gain.
He had suddenly become impatient with folly. It was Cromwell's mood, as one
who, living under the eye of God, scorned the vapourings of pedestalled
mortals. Mr. Lovel by a different road reached the same goal. An abiding
sense of fate ordering the universe made him intolerant of trivial claims
of prerogative and blood. Kingship for him had no sanctity save in so far
as it was truly kingly. Were honest folk to be harried because of the whims
of a man whose remote ancestor had been a fortunate bandit? Carles had time
and again broke faith with his people and soaked the land in blood. In law
he could do no wrong, but, unless God slept, punishment should follow the
crime, and if the law gave no aid the law must be dispensed with. Man was
not made for it, but it for man.
The jurist in him pulled up with a start.
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