"Even if what I said didn't happen to be particularly commendatory?" inquired Horton, his eyes narrowing.
"So long," replied the Kentuckian, "as what you said was your own opinion, I don't reckon it would interest me much."
"In point of fact"—-Horton was gazing with steady hostility into Samson's eyes—"I prefer to tell you. I have rather generally expressed the belief that you are a damned savage, unfit for decent society."
Samson's face grew rigid and a trifle pale. His mouth set itself in a straight line, but, as Wilfred Horton came to his feet with the last words, the mountaineer remained seated.
"And," went on the New Yorker, flushing with suddenly augmenting passion, "what I said I still believe to be true, and repeat in your presence. At another time and place, I shall be even more explicit. I shall ask you to explain—certain things."
"Mr. Horton," suggested Samson in an ominously quiet voice, "I reckon you're a little drunk. If I were you, I'd sit down."
Wilfred's face went from red to white, and his shoulders stiffened. He leaned forward, and for the instant no one moved. The tick of a hall clock was plainly audible.
"South," he said, his breath coming in labored excitement, "defend yourself!"
Samson still sat motionless.
"Against what?" he inquired.