Hackelberg writhed and grunted over his glass.
"At that time you were a sportsman, a terror to your master, and your bullet never missed its mark. Drink away, man! It's difficult to believe now that you were ever a good shot."
"I am, still," lisped the carpenter.
"Ha, ha!--pardon my laughing, old fellow. To begin with, you don't even know what you've done with your gun."
"But--I do."
"And besides, your hand has become too slack, and your honour has evaporated, and your courage with it."
The carpenter laughed. An evil light gleamed in the corners of his eyes.
"What? You would maintain that you have a spark of honour left in your composition when you submit without a murmur to your daughter being brought to shame? And what's more, you can bear to see her and her seducer at large. Didn't she, your own flesh and blood, scorn you and slap away your proffered hand? Ungrateful, disrespectful wench that she is!"
The carpenter staggered to his feet.
"No one follow me," he roared, and shook his fist