The Major started up and then sat down again.
“I do know, sir, and I wish to God I didn't,” he replied, choking in his anger.
Dan stood where he had halted upon his entrance, and looked at him with eyes in which there was still a defiant humour. His face was pale and his hair hung in black streaks across his forehead. The white dust of the turnpike had settled upon his clothes, and as he moved it floated in a little cloud about him.
“I reckon you think it's a pretty bad thing, eh?” he questioned coolly, though his hands trembled.
The Major's eyes flashed ominously from beneath his heavy brows.
“Pretty bad?” he repeated, taking a long breath. “If you want to know what I think about it, sir, I think that it's a damnable disgrace. Pretty bad!—By God, sir, do you call having a gaol-bird for a grandson pretty bad?”
“Stop, sir!” called Dan, sharply. He had steadied himself to withstand the shock of the Major's temper, but, in the dash of his youthful folly, he had forgotten to reckon with his own. “For heaven's sake, let's talk about it calmly,” he added irritably.
“I am perfectly calm, sir!” thundered the Major, rising to his feet. The terrible flush went in a wave to his forehead, and he put up one quivering hand to loosen his high stock. “I tell you calmly that you've done a damnable thing; that you've brought disgrace upon the name of Lightfoot.”
“It is not my name,” replied Dan, lifting his head. “My name is Montjoy, sir.”
“And it's a name to hang a dog for,” retorted the Major.