("But," said I, somewhat diffidently, "the fellow was a proved scoundrel!")
FIRST VOICE (bellowing). Sophistry! sophistry! even supposing he was the greatest of villains, does that make her less a murderess in intent?
MYSELF. Hum!
FIRST VOICE (roaring). Of course not! Again, can this woman even faintly compare with your ideal of what a woman should be—this shrew!—this termagant! Can a woman whose hand has the strength to level a pistol, and whose mind the will to use it, be of a nature gentle, clinging, sweet—
SECOND VOICE (sotto). And sticky!
FIRST VOICE (howling). Of course not!—preposterous!
(Hereupon, finding no answer, I strode on through the alleys of the wood; but, when I had gone some distance, I stopped again, for there rushed over me the recollection of the tender pity of her eyes and the gentle touch of her hand, as when she had bound up my hurts.
"Nevertheless," said I doggedly, "her face can grow more beautiful with pity, and surely no woman's hand could be lighter or more gentle.")
FIRST VOICE (with withering contempt). Our Peter fellow is like to become a preposterous ass.
(But, unheeding, I thrust my hand into my breast, and drew out a small handful of cambric, whence came a faint perfume of violets. And, closing my eyes, it seemed that she was kneeling before me, her arms about my neck, as when she had bound this handkerchief about my bleeding temples.