"And you won't do something particular for Crescence now?"
"I don't see why."
"But I see it, your reverence. Not a soul shall ever hear of it, I'll take my oath and sacrament upon it; but help us you must, or I don't know what's to become of us both."
The parson fumbled in his pocket for his keys, and, having found the right one, he twirled it in his fingers, saying, "I always like to assist the poor, but can do very little just now."
"Then give me your handwriting for the balance."
At these words the parson looked around him with an air of wrath and terror. He thought he must have betrayed himself in permitting Florian to make such a demand. With forced hardness in his tone, he repeated, "Once for all, I have nothing to do with these people; and here is something toward your expenses."
Florian flung the money at his feet, crying, "I want to know whether you mean to do your duty by your child or not. She's as like you as one rain-drop's like the other. Yes or no? You are the father of my Crescence. I dare not hurt you, and I will not hurt you; but--Lord God!--I don't know what I am doing!" He seized the handle of the knife in his pocket, snapped the lock of the door with his other hand, and went on:--"I never slaughtered the wrong sort of cattle yet; but----" He foamed and trembled with fury.
"You villain!" cried the parson, making for the window and opening it.
Suddenly the wall opened, and the housekeeper entered by a masked door, saying, "The councilmen and the squire are over there, your reverence, and want you to come over directly."
The knife almost fell from Florian's hand. The parson stood in the open door in safety.