And on the instant she flashed out, breaking upon him in a storm of passion. That he dared, that he dared, on no warrant but his reputation for inhumanity, so to outrage and insult her.
“Go, sir!” she cried. “Return to your Nubians and Dacoits—to countries where head-hunting is considered an honourable proof of manliness!”
He stood, as outwardly insensate as a bull.
“Then you decline to deal?”
Her only answer was to throw herself into a chair, and to abandon herself to incomprehensible weeping. But even her sobs seemed to make no soft impression on him. He took a step nearer to her, and spoke in the same civil and measured tone he had maintained throughout.
“Take care, madam. I never yet set my will upon a capture that in the long run escaped me.”
She checked her tears, to look up at him with a little furious laugh.
“Poor boaster!” she said. “I think, perhaps, that recounting of your Tigrétier hath infected you with it.”
“By my beard, madam,” said he, “I will make that hair my own!”
“See,” she cried jeeringly, “how a boaster swears by what he has not!”