“Well, I come of the race among which that institution is pre-eminently supposed to flourish. Philip’s father injured me, and I foredoomed the son from his cradle to be the means of avenging that injury upon the father. And when the time came—he did so.”
“And you are such a monster as to come here and gloat over it!” said Alma, recoiling from him in a perfect horror of repulsion. But the other was unmoved. A wintry ghost of a smile drooped the corners of his mouth. He looked at her for a moment and went on.
“By no means. I saved his life more than once—and twice after that I gave him his life.”
“Gave him his life?”
“Yes. Are you aware that he challenged me, and I met him?”
“I had heard of it.”
“Well, we exchanged shots twice; rather, I let him have two shots at me, while I—blazed away at the heavens. He could have had a dozen if he wished, but the seconds did not. I am a dead shot, and I was not going to fire at him. Now, am I such a monster?”
“Go on.”
“Well, his bullet hit me, and I shall never walk straight again. It hit me—exactly where I wounded his father when Philip himself was hardly out of his cradle. But I bore him not the slightest grudge for that—nor do I. My vendetta was accomplished. It had to be done, and it was done. Yet several times I wavered. The chances were even that I would spare him, for I had grown fond of the boy. And, Miss Wyatt, yours is the hand that turned the scale against him.”
“Mine? What do you mean?”