“I never thought of any,” replied Linton, collectedly.
“So much the better, sir. It seems to me frankness is the only reparation you can make for past infamy!”
“It may be the only one you will be disposed to ask for,” said Linton, sneeringly.
Cashel grew fiery red. To taunt him with want of courage was something so unexpected—for which he was so totally unprepared—that he lost his self-possession, and in a passionate tone exclaimed,—
“Is it you who dare to say this to me—you, whose infamy has need but to be published abroad, to make every one who calls himself 'gentleman' shun your very contact!”
“This punctilious reverence for honor does infinite credit to your buccaneer education,” said Linton, whose eyes sparkled with malignant delight at the angry passion he had succeeded in evoking. “The friendship of escaped felons must have a wondrous influence upon refinement.”
“Enough, sir!” said Cashel. “How came you into the room, since the key of it is in my pocket?”
“Were I to inform you,” said Linton, “you would acknowledge it was by a much more legitimate mode than that by which you effected your entrance.”
“You shall decide which is the pleasanter then!” cried Cashel, as he tore open the window, and advanced in a menacing manner towards the other.
“Take care, Cashel,” said Linton, in a low, deliberate voice; “I am armed!”