"You could not send me back," she said.
"I could send you to a worse place," he replied coldly. "You know my power."
She shuddered.
His tone changed completely.
"You little fool," he said roughly, but with a kindliness his speech had lacked hitherto. "You know very well that I could never let you go back to the stews from which I rescued you. But I wanted to remind you, Myra, that you belong to me—that, like myself, you are pledged to war—a merciless, devouring, devastating war with Society; that you, even as I myself, are outcast—one from whom the world would shrink—you have been in danger of forgetting lately, Myra."
"I have not forgotten," she answered with comparative quietness, "but I have been thinking of what is the use of it all, this eternal warfare against the world. You have won again and again. You have told me that you are the richer by what the world has lost. You lack nothing that money may buy. There must come a time when the warrior must rest."
"Not while his arm retains its strength to lift his sword," replied Hora, "and by that time he should have provided someone to take his place."
"But if that person is unequal to the task?" Myra queried timidly.
"He pays the penalty," answered Hora.
"Even if it is your own son?" she persisted.