“Am I?”
“Yes; you are most miserably mistaken. Shall I tell you why?”
“I am always glad to receive information, especially in this case, as it is a subject which concerns myself.”
“Right you are, doctor; I s’pose it does concern yourself. Well, then, the young girl named Hester Teige was married to a gipsy; there’s no denying that; but what sort of marriage was it?”
“What sort?”
“Aye, what sort, indeed! She was married in the gipsy’s camp—after the manner of gipsies—married by the father of the tribe, with the sun for a witness, and the greensward for her couch. As far as the legal part of the business is concerned, it wasn’t any marriage at all. So you may take your change out of that.”
As he brought this brief speech to a conclusion, he burst out into a mocking laugh.
“You lying scoundrel!” exclaimed Bourne, in a paroxysm of rage. “You contemptible, deceptive hound—it is false—and I will prove you to be a liar as well as a thief—you unmitigated ruffian!”
“Go on, governor, lay it on thick. Your hard words won’t hurt me; cause why? I’m too much used to them.”
“You shameless abandoned woman,” cried Bourne, turning towards his wife. “I have disgraced myself by my connection with you. What have you to say to this fellow’s declaration?”