"Proud lady," he replied, with calm fury, "if neither Heaven nor hell can protect thee, dost think that thy brother, who is my prisoner, and whose life is in my hands; or that other miserable moth—that holiday captain, in steel plates and gilded scales—will succour, save, or avenge thee?"
"They will, they will, I tell thee, false baron and craven man; thou corrupt counsellor and cowardly Otterburn! And when Vipont returns, thou and all thy kindred may tremble, for neither the Otterburns of Redhall, nor Redford of Auldhame or Avondoune, will be able to withstand him."
He smiled sourly; and she uttered a scornful laugh.
"Woman, how pitilessly thou plantest poniards in a heart that loves thee well. Oh, beware! beware! for a single drop will make the cup that brims to overflow. My heart can know no medium; it is capable of only two extremes. Love the most blind, hatred the most insane; and at times I feel that it vibrates between them. Beware of the last; and, oh! beware of thrusting this rival in my face, for slowly, but surely, drop by drop, as it were, a savage longing for revenge will gather in my heart; yea, drop by drop, till it swells into a flood—a fierce, a furious flood, that, bearing all before it (like a mountain torrent), will drown alike the stings of conscience and of pity, and, like a feather on its surface, will sweep you away with it."
"Sir Roland Vipont is a gallant soldier, who will laugh alike at thy vengeance and thy bombast. True, wretch! thou mayst murder him, as thou didst M'Clellan of Bombie," she continued, with eyes full of tears and fire; "but even then we will find hearts and hands to avenge us."
Redhall remained for some moments speechless with passion and confusion.
"Bombie!" he reiterated, turning ghastly pale; "what leads you to suppose I ever committed a crime so frightful? Speak! But this is the wordy anger of a woman. You talk of an affair which happened eleven years ago, when you must have been but little more than a child. Lady, these words are rash and unadvised. Oh! I implore thee to beware of exciting in my heart the hatred of which I spoke, and of which I feel it capable."
"Then I will repeat them a thousand and a thousand times, thou murderer of the brave Sir Thomas M'Clellan, my father's long-loved friend. I need care little for thy hatred, when thy mad love costs me so dear."
"My hatred—beware, I implore thee once again—beware of it!"
Lady Seton laughed; and a gloomy expression gathered in the dark solemn eyes of Redhall.