Le told her that he should stay at home all night.
The woman went away to attend to his comforts.
Le opened the door of that little, oak-paneled parlor on the right of the hall of entrance, where there was always a fire kept alive for the master, and a round table covered with account books, piles of paper, bundles of pens and bottles of ink.
Le threw off his riding coat, hat and gloves, drew off his boots, thrust his feet into slippers, and dropped into the large, leather armchair before the table, and laid his head upon his folded arms on its top.
Le was not the least of a coward. He knew no fear. Yet he fully realized the awful gravity of the situation in which he had voluntarily placed himself. His Christian conscience began to trouble him.
“Thou shalt not kill!” it whispered to him.
He tried not to hear it.
“The dastardly villain ought to be punished,” he said to himself. “My uncle cannot call the beast out. He is a justice of the peace; he is a vestryman in the church; he is a husband and a father. He cannot fight the monster! And he has no son to act for him! I am his nearest male relative, and I have no ties to bind me and keep me from doing a man’s part in this matter; it seems my duty. I do not want to kill the wretch, though he deserves to die; I do not want to kill him! I think I would far rather he killed me! But I cannot help it! I must call him out, and he must take the risk! I must avenge Odalite!”
His conscience again spoke:
“Vengeance is mine, and I will repay, saith the Lord.”