“You know very well that it was not so. I did not rear up pheasants and
hares merely to eat them or that others might eat them. Something
forces me to tell you that it was in order that I might enjoy myself by
showing my skill in shooting them, or to have the pleasure and exercise
of hunting them to death. Still,” he added defiantly, “I who am a
Christian man maintain that my religion perfectly justified me in doing
all these things, and that no blame attaches to me on this account.”
“Very good,” said the Hare, “now we have a clear issue. Friend Mahatma,
when those Gates open presently what happens beyond them?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, “I have never been there; at least not that
I can remember.”
“Still, friend Mahatma, is it not said that yonder lives some Power
which judges righteously and declares what is true and what is false?”
“I have heard so, Hare.”
“Very well, Man, I lay my cause before that Power—do you the same. If I
am wrong I will go back to earth to be tortured by you and yours again.
If, however, I am right, you shall abide the judgment of the Power, and
I ask that It will make of you—a hunted hare!”
Now when he heard these awful words—for they were awful—no less, the
Red-faced Man grew much disturbed. He hummed and he hawed, and shifted
his feet about. At last he said—
“You must admit that while you lived you had a first-class time under
my protection. Lots of turnips to eat and so forth.”
“A first-class time!” the Hare answered with withering scorn. “What
sort of a time would you have had if some one had shot you all over the
back and you must creep away to die of pain and starvation? How would
you have enjoyed it if, from day to day, you had been forced to live in
terror of cunning monsters, who at any hour might appear to hurt you in
some new fashion? Do you suppose that animals cannot feel fear, and is
continual fear the kind of friend that gives them a ‘first-class
time’?”
To this last argument the Man seemed able to find no answer.
“Mr. Hare,” he said humbly, “we are all fallible. Although I never
thought to find myself in the position of having to do so, I will admit
that I may possibly have been mistaken in my views and treatment of you
and your kind, and indeed of other creatures. If so, I apologise for
any, ah—temporary inconvenience I may have caused you. I can do no
more.”
“Come, Hare,” I interposed, “that’s handsome; perhaps you might let
bygones be bygones.”
“Apologise!” exclaimed the Hare. “After all I have suffered I do not
think it is enough. At the very least, Mahatma, he should say that he
is heartily ashamed and sorry.”
“Well, well,” said the Man, “it’s no use making two bites of a cherry.
I am sorry, truly sorry for all the pain and terror I have brought on
you. If that won’t do let’s go up and settle the matter, and if I’ve
been wrong I’ll try to bear the consequences like a gentleman. Only,
Mr. Hare, I hope that you will not wish to put your case more strongly
against me than you need.”
“Not I, Man. I know now that you only erred because the truth had not
been revealed to you—because you did not understand. All that I will
ask, if I can, is that you may be allowed to tell this truth to other
men.”
“Well, I am glad to say I can’t do that, Hare.”
“Don’t be so sure,” I broke in; “it’s just the kind of thing which
might be decreed—a generation or two hence when the world is fit to
listen to you.”