The English mother moaned. She understood.
“And after that, her lover too was slain; and not only he, but also his sister, his mother, his entire family. My old sword has drunk deep, Mrs. Gregory,” and he drew a finger lovingly along its blade.
“Don’t—don’t tell me any more,” Florence Gregory whispered.
Wu lifted the weapon and laid it across his knee—reverently. “I warned you that it was rather a gruesome story,” he said gravely.
“Yes—well,” she stumbled, playing still for time, trying to think, “thank Heaven we are more civilized to-day than—than anything so horrible as that!”
Wu smiled. “Much more civilized, no doubt. Methods change; and since I have had the advantage of a European education, if I found myself in such a case, I would not adopt so bloodthirsty a revenge. Indeed I think, if anything, my ancestors erred on the side of leniency.” Wu Li Chang paused. Less light was coming through the one high window now. Florence Gregory was well-nigh strangled by the beating of her tortured, frightened heart. And almost Wu could hear its beat.
“He was robbed of honor,” he said sternly; “he took merely life in exchange, whilst he might have taken—from the sister or the mother—that which they would have held dearer than life. Are you listening to me, Mrs. Gregory?” for she had buried her face in her hands on the table where the sword had laid.
She lifted her head heavily—her face was ashen and lifeless—and looked at him with stricken, agonized eyes.
“I have wearied you,” Wu said contritely. “Your husband would reproach me—or your honorable son. My story was too long, and unpleasant in an English lady’s ears. Yet I have said no word that does not bring me nearer to my point. I, too, had a daughter——”
“Had!” the woman’s lips just breathed it.