“Do you hear, William?” said George.
“I hear, George,” replied William in an iron whisper, with his sullen head sunk upon his breast.
George left Susan, and came between her and William.
“Then, Susan,” said he, rather loud, “here is your brother.”
William winced.
“William! here is my life!” And he pointed to Susan. “Let no man rob me of it if one mother really bore us.”
It went through William's heart like a burning arrow. And this was why George had taken him to their mother's grave. That flashed across him, too.
The poor sulky fellow's head was seen to rise inch by inch till he held it as erect as a king's.
“Never!” he cried, half shouting, half weeping. “Never, s'help me God! She's my sister from this hour—no more, no less. And may the red blight fall on my arm and my heart, if I or any man takes her from you—any man!” he cried, his temples flushing and his eye glittering; “sooner than a hundred men should take her from you while I am here I'd die at their feet a hundred times.”
Well done, sullen and rugged but honest man; the capital temptation of your life is wrestled with and thrown. That is always to every man a close, a deadly, a bitter struggle; and we must all wade through this deep water at one hour or another of our lives. It is as surely our fate as it is one day to die.