some by the other. That's the only reason."

"But you, who make a mock of human life, don't you place any value
upon it whatever?" I demanded.

"Value? What value?" He looked at me, and though his eyes were
steady and motionless, there seemed a cynical smile in them. "What
kind of value? How do you measure it? Who values it?"

"I do," I made answer.

"Then what is it worth to you? Another man's life, I mean. Come
now, what is it worth?"

The value of life? How could I put a tangible value upon it?
Somehow, I, who have always had expression, lacked expression when
with Wolf Larsen. I have since determined that a part of it was
due to the man's personality, but that the greater part was due to
his totally different outlook. Unlike other materialists I had met
and with whom I had something in common to start on, I had nothing
in common with him. Perhaps, also, it was the elemental simplicity
of his mind that baffled me. He drove so directly to the core of
the matter, divesting a question always of all superfluous details,
and with such an air of finality, that I seemed to find myself
struggling in deep water, with no footing under me. Value of life?
How could I answer the question on the spur of the moment? The
sacredness of life I had accepted as axiomatic. That it was
intrinsically valuable was a truism I had never questioned. But
when he challenged the truism I was speechless.