As they faced each other with the same flash of temper kindling in both faces, the likeness between them grew suddenly more striking. It was as if the spirit of the fiery old man had risen, in a finer and younger shape, from the air before him.
“At all events it is not yours,” said Dan, hotly. Then he came nearer, and the anger died out of his eyes. “Don't let's quarrel, grandpa,” he pleaded. “I've gotten into a mess, and I'm sorry for it—on my word I am.”
“So you've come whining to me to get you out,” returned the Major, shaking as if he had gone suddenly palsied.
Dan drew back and his hand fell to his side.
“So help me God, I'll never whine to you again,” he answered.
“Do you want to know what you have done, sir?” demanded the Major. “You have broken your grandmother's heart and mine—and made us wish that we had left you by the roadside when you came crawling to our door. And, on my oath, if I had known that the day would ever come when you would try to murder a Virginia gentleman for the sake of a bar-room hussy, I would have left you there, sir.”
“Stop!” said Dan again, looking at the old man with his mother's eyes.
“You have broken your grandmother's heart and mine,” repeated the Major, in a trembling voice, “and I pray to God that you may not break Virginia Ambler's—poor girl, poor girl!”
“Virginia Ambler!” said Dan, slowly. “Why, there was nothing between us, nothing, nothing.”
“And you dare to tell me this to my face, sir?” cried the Major.