"Murder!" Barrymaine repeated, "so it would—murder! Yes, by God!"
"And secondly, you haven't the nerve. Though he has clandestine meetings with your sister, though he crush you into the mud, trample you under his feet, throw you into a debtor's prison to rot out your days—though he ruin you body and soul, and compromise your sister's honor—still you'd never—murder him, Ronald, you couldn't, you haven't the heart, because it would be—murder!"
Mr. Chichester's voice was low, yet each incisive, quick-spoken word reached Barnabas, while upon Barrymaine their effect was demoniac. Dropping his pistol-case, he threw up wild arms and shook his clenched fists in the air.
"Damn him!" he cried, "damn him! B-bury me in a debtor's prison, will he? Foul my sister's honor w-will he? Never! never! I tell you I'll kill him first!"
"Murder him, Ronald?"
"Murder? I t-tell you it's no murder to kill his sort. G-give me the pistols."
"Hush! Come into the barn."
"No. W-what for?"
"Well, the time is getting on, Ronald,—nearly seven o'clock, and your ardent lovers are usually before their time. Come into the barn."
"N-no,—devilish dark hole!"