The color ebbed from her face, and she shuddered—she who was proposing this! She shuddered at the picture of a brute’s broken leg! And yet, strange to say, she clung to her purpose. She looked at me between anger and vexation, and “If I do not, others will,” she said. “Do you understand that, sir? Is not that enough for you? Cannot you believe, cannot you do me the justice to believe that I am doing what I think to be right? That I am acting for the best? If you stay here after this your blood be upon your own head!” she added solemnly.
“So be it,” I said. “It would be a very great danger that would draw me from where I am, Miss Wilmer. I am like the King of France, or whoever it was, who said ‘J’y suis, J’y reste.’”
“Stubborn! Foolish!” I heard her mutter.
“I hate pain,” I said complacently.
“Do you hate pain more than you fear death?” she asked, gazing at me with sombre eyes.
“I am afraid I do,” I replied. “I am a milksop.” And I looked at her.
I was beginning to enjoy the discussion. But if I hoped for a farther exchange of badinage with her I was mistaken. She did not deign to reply. She did that to which I could make no answer. She went out and closed the door behind her.
CHAPTER IV
AT THE SMITHY
Hinc Constantia, illinc Furor.
Catullus.