"I always get myself a good Mordeaux while my lidless Eye watches evildoers be put to a cruel death," said the Count. "But while the laws of the hobbites may suffice to punish a relatively trivial thing like murder, there are a million torments that may devour a man's heart without society caring more than for a misattributed text in Gandault's Lettres. Are there no crimes for which neither the razors of the Dweargues, nor the frying pans of the Orcs, nor yet the poems of Bombadil would be an adequate punishment?"
"There are," said Arafrantz. "It is to punish them that the flame war has been instituted."
"Bha!" snorted the Count. "I would fight a flame war for a bagatelle, a lie, an insult, and with all the more insouciance given that, thanks to my possession of the bane of Isildour, I am certain to kill my adversary. But for a slow, profound suffering, in the halls of lamentation, where thy flesh be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind be left naked... : eye for eye, tooth for tooth, ring-finger for ring-finger, foot-hair for foot-hair, as the Haradrins, our teachers in all things, say in their wisdom – those elects of creation who have known how to make a life of pipe-dreams and an Aman of realities... But my word of honor, messieurs, this is a singular conversation for a day of Carnival! How came we to discuss the art of capital punishment? Ah, I remember now, it was your request for a window... But if I am not mistaken, our meal is served."
