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nothing else to eat. We shudder at the very
word of cannibalism and we hang the savage
who wants to indulge in this habit of his
ancestors, but the murdering and eating of little
birds remains unpunished.”
“You are an idealist, my dear doctor.”
“No, they call it sentimentality and only
sneer at it. Let them sneer as much as they
like, I do not care. But mark my words! The
time will come when they will cease to sneer,
when they will understand that the animal
world was placed by the Creator under our
protection, and not at our mercy: that animals
have as much right to live as we have, and that
our right to take their lives is strictly limited to
our right of defence and our right of existence.
The time will come when the mere pleasure of
killing will die out in man. As long as it is
there, man has no claim to call himself civilized,
he is a mere barbarian, a missing link between
his wild ancestors who slew each other with
stone axes for a piece of raw flesh and the man
of the future. The necessity of killing wild
animals is indisputable, but their executioners,
the proud hunters of to-day, will sink down to
the same level as the butchers of domestic
animals.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said the Count
looking up in the sky once more as we turned our
horses and rode back to the Castle.
While we were at luncheon, a valet brought
the Countess a telegram which she handed to the
Count who read it without saying a word.
“I think you have already met my cousin
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