Mark felt the sting which the quiet words of young Campbell contained and a dark flush stained his cheeks.
“It is the weakest who are ever the worst,” cried he, noticing the cold glances of dislike leveled at him. “A man like Foster could do as much harm to the cause of the king as Marion himself.”
“Perhaps so,” said Blake, bitingly. “But there is much more credit in matching oneself against Marion; he, at least, can fight back.”
Mark bit his lip savagely at this; he felt the hostility which some of his actions had awakened, now and then; but he could never be made to see the shame of them. His was a mind which recognized no law of right or wrong or fairness where a foe was concerned. It did not matter much to him who or what the foe was, he would set about crushing him as completely as possible; if he were weak it made Harwood all the more resolved, for, as Lieutenant Blake had insinuated, a weak foe could not fight back, and hard fighting was a thing which Master Mark had not much stomach for.
“I have frequently noticed, Harwood,” said Ensign Campbell, “that you always select some such object as Foster for your attacks, when you are left to your own devices.”
Mark turned upon the young dragoon with a snarl.
“You have a reputation, I believe, Campbell,” said he, “for frequently noticing nonexistent things.”
“You mean by that, I suppose,” said the other, composedly, but with a warning sparkle in his eye, “that I am given to stating what is not true.”
Mark caught the look in the dragoon’s eyes; at any other time it would have frightened him; but now he was filled with the recklessness of rage.
“And another thing,” said he viciously, “you yourself admit that you fled before the sword of Tom Deering that night in the swamp; and yet you, almost in so many words, accuse me of cowardice—I who faced him that day at Foster’s.”