"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?"
"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 position, 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 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."