Dimmesdale’s death, in the appearance and demeanor of the old man known as Roger Chillingworth. All his strength and energy⁠—all his vital and intellectual force⁠—seemed at once to desert him; insomuch that he positively withered up, shrivelled away, and almost vanished from mortal sight, like an uprooted weed that lies wilting in the sun. This unhappy man had made the very principle of his life to consist in the pursuit and systematic exercise of revenge; and when, by its completest triumph and consummation, that evil principle was left with no further material to support it, when, in short, there was no more Devil’s work on earth for him to do, it only remained for the unhumanized mortal to betake himself whither his Master would find him tasks enough, and pay him his wages duly. But, to all these shadowy beings, so long our near acquaintances⁠—as well Roger Chillingworth as his companions⁠—we would fain be merciful. It is a curious subject of observation and inquiry, whether hatred and love be not the same thing at bottom.