"How, dearest Matilda! what mean you?" asked the officer, again warmed into tenderness by the presence of the fascinating being.
"Can you ask, Gerald?" and her voice assumed a tone of melancholy reproach—"recall but your manner—your language—your devotedness of soul not an hour since—compare these with your present coolness, and then wonder that I should have reason for regret."
"Now, Matilda, that coldness arose not from any change in my feelings towards yourself—I was piqued, disappointed, even angry, at the extraordinary escape of my prisoner, and could not sufficiently play the hypocrite to disguise my annoyance."
"Yet, what had I to do with the man's escape that his offence should be visited upon me?" she demanded quickly.
"Can you not find some excuse for my vexation, knowing, as you do, that the wretch was a vile assassin—a man whose hands have been imbrued in the blood of my own father?"
"Was he not acquitted of the charge?"
"He was—but only from lack of evidence to convict; yet, although acquitted by the law, not surer is fate than that he is an assassin."
"You hold assassins in great horror," remarked the American thoughtfully, "you are right—it is but natural."
"In horror, said you?—aye, in such loathing that language can supply no term to express it."
"And yet you once attempted an assassination yourself. Nay do not start, and look the image of astonishment. Have you not told me that you fired into the hut, on the night of your mysterious adventure? What right had you, if we argue the question on its real merit, to attempt the life of a being who had never injured you?"