Harz turned white.
“Ah! you bring that up again!” he broke out. “Seven years ago I was a boy and starving; if you had been in my place you would have done what I did. My country is as much to me as your country is to you. I've been an exile seven years, I suppose I shall always be I've had punishment enough; but if you think I am a rascal, I'll go and give myself up.” He turned on his heel.
“Stop! I beg your pardon! I never meant to hurt you. It isn't easy for me to eat my words,” Mr. Treffry said wistfully, “let that count for something.” He held out his hand.
Harz came quickly back and took it. Christian's gaze was never for a moment withdrawn; she seemed trying to store up the sight of him within her. The light darting through the half-closed shutters gave her eyes a strange, bright intensity, and shone in the folds of her white dress like the sheen of birds' wings.
Mr. Treffry glanced uneasily about him. “God knows I don't want anything but her happiness,” he said. “What is it to me if you'd murdered your mother? It's her I'm thinking of.”
“How can you tell what is happiness to her? You have your own ideas of happiness—not hers, not mine. You can't dare to stop us, sir!”
“Dare?” said Mr. Treffry. “Her father gave her over to me when she was a mite of a little thing; I've known her all her life. I've—I've loved her—and you come here with your 'dare'.” His hand dragged at his beard, and shook as though palsied.
A look of terror came into Christian's face.
“All right, Chris! I don't ask for quarter, and I don't give it!”
Harz made a gesture of despair.