Then, remembering that he was to die upon the morrow, and that at such a time it was not well to risk the perdition of his soul by an untruth, however merciful, he answered slowly: "Were I to judge you, since you ask me, sir, I should be merciful because of your misfortunes.

And yet, Sir Crispin, your profligacy and the evil you have wrought in life must weigh heavily against you." Had this immaculate bigot, this churlish milksop been as candid with himself as he was with Crispin, he must have recognized that it was mainly Crispin's offences towards himself that his mind now dwelt on in deeper rancour than became one so well acquainted with the Lord's Prayer.
"You had not cause enough," he added impressively, "to defile your soul and risk its eternal damnation because the evil of others had wrecked your life." Crispin drew breath with the sharp hiss of one in pain, and for a moment after all was still.

Then a bitter laugh broke from him.
"Bravely answered, reverend sir," he cried with biting scorn.

"I marvel only that you left your pulpit to gird on a sword; that you doffed your cassock to don a cuirass.

Here is a text for you who deal in texts, my brave Jack Presbyter--'Judge you your neighbour as you would yourself be judged; be merciful as you would hope for mercy.' Chew you the cud of that until the hangman's coming in the morning.