Moltzahn and Burroughs found a level well back from the road and private. To this the party went. The snow on the peaks was rosy red, and the birds were awakening to full song, and from the earth rose the fresh, living gladness of welcome to the new day. The lot decided that Aloyse should face the south and Grafton the north—“a good omen,” thought Grafton, and the look in his face showed how far murder was from his heart.
As they were about to take their places he said to Aloyse, “I wish a few words with you in private.”
“Absurd—impossible!” interrupted Moltzahn. “Such conduct is intolerable!”
Grafton looked at Aloyse as if Moltzahn had not spoken.
Aloyse hesitated. “Don’t!” pleaded Moltzahn, in a whisper. “He may say something that will unsettle your nerves.”
Aloyse drew himself up haughtily. “Stand aside,” he ordered, “all of you. The fellow may wish to apologize. If so, I may let him off with a sound caning.”
Grafton went close to him. “It may be,” he said, in an even voice, “that you will kill me, so I take the precaution of speaking beforehand. I could easily kill you, because I happen to be a dead shot with the pistol. But I shall spare your life. I shall only shatter your right hand. I do it that you may wear, as long as your body holds together, the badge of my mercy to you—for her sake.”
“How dare you speak of her!” fumed Aloyse. “Yes; I shall kill you for your insolence to our house.”
“It amuses me to see you rage,” said Grafton. “It makes me realize what I rescued her from.”
Aloyse was in a paroxysm of anger. “My cousin and I will marry the day after to-morrow. It is all arranged—”