“A man is no murderer who slays another in defence of his own life,” said Brettison calmly, getting out an old spirit decanter and glasses.
“Leave that,” cried Stratton, pushing away the glass his friend placed before him. “Go on—go on!”
“No,” said Brettison sternly; “you need the stimulus now.”
“Man, have you no feeling for me at such an anguish point as this?”
“Man, have you no feeling for one who is old and infirm, and who has shortened his poor share of life in his efforts to save you from the misery of your lot?”
“Forgive me,” groaned Stratton. “I am not what I was, Brettison.”
“No man could go through such a crucial passage in his life and come out the same,” was the quiet reply. “There, drink that. I do not indulge in these things, as you know; but I am faint, and it is hard work to collect one’s thoughts.”
He poured out two little glasses of the contents of the old decanter, and drank one—Stratton, whose temples were throbbing, and whose hand trembled in a palsied way, following his example.
“Now,” he said, “go on. I am in misery.”
“You must know all. I must tell it in my own way, for my mind is confused all through with doubts as to whether I was right in keeping you in ignorance of all this. I did not see it before; I do see it now.”