He spoke savagely, and loud. John was silent; he had locked his hands together convulsively; but it was easy to see that his blood was at boiling heat, and that, did he once slip the leash of his passions, it would go hard with Richard Brithwood.
The latter came up to him with clenched fist. "Now mark me, you—you vagabond!"
Ursula March crossed the room, and caught his arm, her eyes gleaming fire.
"Cousin, in my presence this gentleman shall be treated as a gentleman. He was kind to my father."
"Curse your father!"
John's right hand burst free; he clutched the savage by the shoulder.
"Be silent. You had better."
Brithwood shook off the grasp, turned and struck him; that last fatal insult, which offered from man to man, in those days, could only be wiped out with blood.
John staggered. For a moment he seemed as if he would have sprung on his adversary and felled him to the ground—but—he did it not.
Some one whispered,—"He won't fight. He is a Quaker."