"What do you mean?" inquired the hermit, with a furious air.
"I mean that yonder is your gate, and there are you, and here am I. I mean that I know it to be a moral impossibility that any person can stray in at that gate from any point of the compass, with any sort of experience, gained at first hand, or derived from another, that can confute me and justify you."
"You are an arrogant and boastful hero," said the hermit. "You think yourself profoundly wise."
"Bah!" returned Mr. Traveller, quietly smoking.
"There is little wisdom in knowing that every man must be up and doing, and that all mankind are made dependent on one another."
"You have companions outside," said the hermit. "I am not to be imposed upon by your assumed confidence in the people who may enter."
"A depraved distrust," returned the visitor, compassionately raising his eyebrows, "of course belongs to your state. I can't help that."
"Do you mean to tell me you have no confederates?"
"I mean to tell you nothing but what I have told you. What I have told you is, that it is a moral impossibility that any son or daughter of Adam can stand on this ground that I put my foot on, or any ground that mortal treads, and gainsay the healthy tenure on which we hold our existence."
"Which is," sneered the hermit, "according to you—"
"Which is," returned the other, "according to eternal providence, that we must arise and wash our faces and do our gregarious work, and act and react on one another, leaving only the idiot and the palsied to sit blinking in the corner. Come!" apostrophizing the gate, "Open Sesame! Show his eyes and grieve his heart! I don't care who comes, for I know what must come of it!"
With that he faced round a little on his billet of wood towards the gate; and Mr. Mopes, the hermit, after two or three ridiculous bounces of indecision at his bed and back again, submitted to what he could not help himself against, and coiled himself on his window-ledge, holding to his bars and looking out rather anxiously.
