“Go to your room, Miriam,” I heard him say to her. “I have no use for you here. As for this man Le Bourse, if you have any dealings with him I shall lock you up. Go. Do you hear me?”
The girl did not move. She folded her arms across her breast, at the same time drawing herself up proudly. She was tall and slender, and of a fine, dignified figure.
“Father,” she replied, “there is no use threatening me. You know that I am not a coward. If you do not intend to make some reparation to this man who has come to seek his sister, I shall. You can at least be kind to him. You know only too well that unkindness here hastened, perhaps caused, the poor girl’s unhappy death.”
She brushed her hand across her eyes. I blessed her in my heart for that little act. The patroon, however, grew angry. He lifted a wine glass from the table and held it in his hand, as if he intended to throw it at her.
“Do not talk to me of her,” he burst out. “Not a word of her or you shall repent it. Now go. You have already seen too much of this man. I shall not tolerate it.”
The girl bowed with proper dignity, but she did not move. She had still a word of protest that must be said.
“I shall obey you, sir, but I must say what I feel. I shall not act behind your back. You shall know exactly what I intend to do. I shall see him again and tell him all I can of the miserable fate of his sister and I shall do all in my power to sooth his sorrow. I loved Ruth even if she was but—”
Her words were cut short by the crash of breaking glass. She had sprung to one side just in time to evade the flying goblet which her father hurled at her.
“Will you not obey me? Are you not my daughter?”
“I am you daughter, but for all that, father—”