Cesarini stared at the speaker gloomily, clenched his hand, and strode rapidly to and fro the room.
“You would be avenged, so would I. Now what shall be the means?” said Ferrers.
“I will stab him to the heart—I will—”
“Cease these tragic flights. Nay, frown and stamp not; but sit down, and be reasonable, or leave me and act for yourself.”
“Sir,” said Cesarini, with an eye that might have alarmed a man less resolute than Ferrers, “have a care how you presume on my distress.”
“You are in distress, and you refuse relief; you are bankrupt in fortune, and you rave like a poet, when you should be devising and plotting for the attainment of boundless wealth. Revenge and ambition may both be yours; but they are prizes never won but by a cautious foot as well as a bold hand.”
“What would you have me do? and what but his life would content me?”
“Take his life if you can—I have no objection—go and take it; only just observe this, that if you miss your aim, or he, being the stronger man, strike you down, you will be locked up in a madhouse for the next year or two at least; and that is not the place in which I should like to pass the winter—but as you will.”
“You!—you!—But what are you to me? I will go. Good day, sir.”
“Stay a moment,” said Ferrers, when he saw Cesarini about to leave the room; “stay, take this chair, and listen to me—you had better—”