“You scoundrel!” cried North, as, furious with rage, he dashed at the man whom he felt to have been the cause of his agonising pang.
For a moment he had turned towards where he had seen Leo shrink away, his eyes flashing as if he could have withered the wretched creature whom he had believed to be all that was good and true, but who, in spite of his passion for her, seemed now to be too base to be worthy even of a word.
He could not crush her. He could not assail her with the bitterness of the words which rushed to his lips. The veil had fallen from his eyes, and in that dire moment, as he saw her hanging upon the neck of the brutal, coarse young squire, his doting love turned to a savage hate.
But he could not crush her; he could not strike her even with his contempt; but a fierce laugh escaped his throat as he felt how good and kind fate had been to him in giving him the opportunity for taking ample revenge.
And how sweet it seemed as he sprang in the dusk at Tom Candlish.
Fate was kind to him again for the moment, for, as if instinctively, North’s hands caught the sturdy young giant in his fierce grip, and for a few moments they swayed here and there, striking against the wall, the simple furniture of the place, crashing against the closet where the registers were kept, and tearing down the surplice and gown to trample them on the floor.
“Are you mad, doctor?” panted Tom Candlish.
“Yes,” came hissing through the doctor’s teeth.
“Don’t be a cursed fool. Recollect where you are.”
“Recollect where I am!” cried North with a bitter laugh. “You say that to me, you sacrilegious hound!”