"What right, Matilda?—every right, human and divine. I sought but to save a victim from the hands of a midnight murderer."
"And, to effect this, scrupled not to become a midnight murderer yourself?"
"And is it thus you interpret my conduct, Matilda?"—the voice of Gerald spoke bitter reproach—"can you compare the act of that man with mine, and hold me no more blameless than him?"
"Nay, I did not say I blamed you," she returned, gaily, "but the fact is, you had left me so long to ruminate here alone, that I have fallen into a mood argumentative, or philosophical—whichsoever you may be pleased to term it—and I am willing to maintain my proposition, that you might by possibility have been more guilty than the culprit at whom you aimed, had your shot destroyed him."
The light tone in which Matilda spoke dispelled the seriousness which had begun to shadow the brow of the young commander. "And pray how do you make this good?" he asked.
"Suppose, for instance, the slumberer you preserved had been a being of crime, through whom the hopes, the happiness, the peace of mind, and above all, the fair fame of the other, had been cruelly and irrevocably blasted. Let us imagine that he had destroyed some dear friend or relative of him with whose vengeance you beheld him threatened."
"Could that be——"
"Or," interrupted the American in the same careless tone, "that he had betrayed a wife."
"Such a man——"
"Or, what is worse, infinitely worse, sought to put the finishing stroke to his villainy, by affixing to the name and conduct of his victim every ignominy and disgrace which can attach to insulted humanity."