“Nothing shall induce me to.”
“I warn you harm will come of it.” “Let it come; I am past fear now.”
“Shun me for Babie's sake, if not for your own.”
“Too late for that; she is headstrong—let her suffer.”
“Have you no power, Gilbert?”
“None over her, much over you.”
“We will prove that!”
“We will!” Rapidly as words could shape them, these questions and answers fell, and with their utterance the last generous feeling died in Pauline's breast; for as she received the flowers, now changed from a love token to a battle gage, she saw the torn glove still crushed in Gilbert's hand, and silently accepted his challenge to the tournament so often held between man and woman—a tournament where the keen tongue is the lance, pride the shield, passion the fiery steed, and the hardest heart the winner of the prize, which seldom fails to prove a barren honor, ending in remorse.