“You—threw Katharine—down!” repeated the old man, the first words spoken in wonder, the last in wrath.
“Not at all, uncle Robert,” protested Alexander. “Do you suppose for a moment that I’m such a man as to—”
“I don’t care what sort of man you are!” retorted Robert Lauderdale. “If you’ve laid hands on Katharine, you shall leave the house—for the last time. Tell me what happened, Jack—Katharine—both of you!”
“We quarrelled and didn’t see Katharine,” said John, his brown eyes on fire. “She thought we’d fight, and ran forward and held me round the neck to keep us apart. Her father dragged her away violently and she fell. Then I hit him.”
“I didn’t drag her violently—”
“Katharine—isn’t that what happened?” asked Ralston.
Old Lauderdale bent down towards her again—but there was no need of looking into her eyes to find the truth there. Her only thought was for Ralston, and he was speaking the truth. She loved him as few women love. She had loved him through good and evil report, with all her soul. And she was ruthless of others, as loving women are. For his sake, she would have sent her father to the gallows, if he had done murder, and if the one word which might have saved him could have done Ralston the least hurt.
“It’s exactly as Jack says,” she answered, in clear tones. “He pulled me from Jack and threw me down.”
Then the old man’s wrath broke out like flame. But there was a little pause first. The blood rushed to his pale cheeks, his bony hands were clenched, and the old veins swelled to bursting in his throat and at his temples. The broken, harsh voice thundered and crashed as he cursed his nephew.
“God damn you, sir! Leave my house this instant!”