Myself: Aye, but if I live—?
She: You shall grow wiser, mayhap, and forgetting the ill that lies behind you, reach out to the good that lieth before.
Myself: And what of my just vengeance?
She: Vengeance is but for the weak of soul, 'tis only the strong can forgive.
Myself: What of my sacred vow? What of my many prayers for vengeance?
She: Empty breath!
Myself: Dare you say so?
She: I dare more, for lying here with Death all about us I tell you, Martin Conisby, despite your size and strength, you are no better than a pitiful, peevish child—"
"Ha!" cried I fiercely, bending over her in the dimness until I might stare into her eyes, wide and dark in the pale oval of her face, "Will ye dare—"
"A child," says she again, nodding at me, "lost and wilful and very selfish with no thought above Martin Conisby and his wrongs. Nay, scowl not nor grind your teeth, 'tis vain! For how may I, that fear not God's dreadful tempest, stoop to fear poor Martin Conisby?"