“Stop!” Vincent Burgess commanded.
“I forbid you to mention her name. You, who come in here from some barren, poverty-stricken prairie home, where good breeding is unknown. You, to presume to think of such a girl as Dr. Fenneben's beautiful niece, whose reputation was barely saved by old Bond Saxon on the stormy night after the holiday. You, who are forced for some reason to care for an unknown child. You, whose true character will soon be fully known here—if this is what you have to say, you may go,” he added with an imperious wave of the hand.
The meanness of anger is in its mastery. Burgess had meant only to discipline Burleigh, but it was too late for that now. The rotunda was very quiet. Everybody was down on the field waiting impatiently for the game to begin. Burgess was also impatient. There was a seat waiting for him beside Elinor Wream.
“I'm not quite ready to go”—Vic's fierce voice filled the rotunda—“because you are going to write my credentials for this game, and you'll do it quick, or beg for mercy.”
“I refuse to consider a word you say.” Burgess was furious now, and the white face and burning eyes of his opponent were unbearable. “I will not grant you any credentials, you low-born prize-fighter—”
A sudden grip of steel held him fast as Vic towered over him. The softened light of the dome of the rotunda, where the Kansas motto, “Ad Astra per Aspera.” adorned the stained glass panes, had never fallen on such a scene as this.
“See here, Burleigh, you'll repent this unwarranted attack,” Burgess cried, trying to free himself. “Brute force will win only among brutes.”
“That's the only place I expect to use it,” Vic retorted, tightening his grip. “No time for words now. The honor of Sunrise as well as my honor is at stake, and it's my right to play in this game, because I have broken no laws. I may have no culture except that of a prairie claim; and I may be poor, and, therefore, presumptuous in daring to mention Elinor Wream's name to you. But”—the brown eyes were a blazing fire—“nobody can tell me that any man must rescue a girl from me to save her reputation, nor that any dishonor belongs to me because of little Bug Buler. Uncultured, as I am, I have the culture of a courage that guards the helpless; and ill-bred, as I may be, I have a gentleman's honor wherever a woman's need calls for my protection.”
Vic's face was ashy, for his anger matched his love, and both were parallel to his wonderful physique and endurance. In his fury, the temptation to throttle the man who had wronged him was gaining the mastery.
“Vic, oh, Vic, they're waiting for you. Turn on! Don't hurt him, Vic.” Bug Buler's pleading little voice broke the momentary stillness.