"Nay," said I, "you have done better than swing a sword. You have shot a sheriff, though it was by accident."
She looked at me with a certain timidity.
"You do not blame me for that?"
"Blame you. And why?"
"I do not know. But you might think it—bloodthirsty," she said, with a quaver in her voice, betwixt a laugh and a cry.
"How could I, when you swooned the instant afterwards?"
"My father told you that!" she exclaimed gratefully; and then: "But he did not tell you the truth of the matter. He said I fired by accident. But I did not; I meant to fire;" and she spoke as though she was assuring me of something incredible. "Now what will you say?" she asked anxiously.
"Why," said I foolishly, "since it was done to save your guest——"
"Oh dear, no," she interrupted coolly, and the anxiety changed to wonder in her eyes. "Indeed, Mr. Clavering, you must not blame yourself that it was on your account I fired." She spoke with the greatest sympathy. "You have no reason in the world to reproach yourself. It was because of my father. He threw down his glove from the window and challenged the sheriff to mortal combat, with whatever weapons he chose, and the sheriff called him—mad. It was that angered me. I think, in truth, that I was mad. And since the pistol was loaded and pointed at the man, I—I pulled the trigger." Then she turned to me impulsively, "You will have a care of my father—the greatest care. Oh, promise me that!"
"Of a truth, I will," I replied fervently.