“You’d no more dare to utter this insolence to his face, than you’d brave the anger of his people here when they heard he was insulted; and take my word for it, Tim O’Rorke, I’m only hesitating this moment whether I’ll not tell them.”
As she spoke, she flung wide the window, and looked out upon the shore beneath, where some thirty wild islanders were listlessly lounging and waiting for the tide to ebb.
O’Rorke grew lividly pale at a threat so significant. If there was anything that had a greater terror for him than another, it was a popular vengeance.
“Well, Sir, do you like the prospect from this window?” asked she. “Come here, and tell me if it is not interesting.”
“It’s wild enough, if you mean that,” said he, with a forced effort to seem calm.
“Tim O’Rorke,” said she, laying her hand on his arm, and looking at him with an expression of kindly meaning, “it is not in their trouble that friends should fall out. I know what affection you have for my poor old grandfather——”
“So, then, you own him?” cried he, scoffingly.
“When did I disown him?”
“Maybe not; but it’s the first time since I entered this room that you called him by that name.”
She flushed up; but after a moment, repressing her anger, she said: