But to fail here, is not mere life or death.

It is that we become as him, that we henceforward become foul things of the night like him, without heart or conscience, preying on the bodies and the souls of those we love best.

To us forever are the gates of heaven shut, for who shall open them to us again?
We go on for all time abhorred by all, a blot on the face of God's sunshine, an arrow in the side of Him who died for man.

But we are face to face with duty, and in such case must we shrink?
For me, I say no, but then I am old, and life, with his sunshine, his fair places, his song of birds, his music and his love, lie far behind.

You others are young.