"It doesn't need a lion to spring at Leveson,"—said Walden, contemptuously—"A sheep would do it! The tamest cur that ever crawled would have spirit enough to make a dash for a creature so unutterably mean and false and petty! I may as well admit to you at once that I myself nearly struck him!"
"You did?" And Bishop Brent's grave dark eyes flashed with a sudden suspicion of laughter.
"I did. I know it was not Churchman-like,—I know it was a case of 'kicking against the pricks.' But Leveson's 'pricks' are too much like hog's bristles for me to endure with patience!"
The Bishop assumed a serious demeanour.
"Come, come, let me hear this out!" he said—"Do you mean to tell me that you—YOU, John—actually struck a brother minister?"
"No—I do not mean to tell you anything of the kind, my Lord Bishop!" answered Walden, beginning to laugh. "I say that I 'nearly' struck him,—not quite! Someone else came on the scene at the critical moment, and did for me what I should certainly have done for myself had I been left to it. I cannot say I am sorry for the impulse!"
"It sounds like a tavern brawl,"—said the Bishop, shaking his head dubiously—"or a street fight. So unlike you, Walden! What was it all about?"
"The fellow was slandering a woman,"—replied Walden, hotly— "Poisoning her name with his foul tongue, and polluting it by his mere utterance—contemptible brute! I should like to have horsewhipped him—-"
"Stop, stop!" interrupted the Bishop, stretching out his thin long white hand, on which one single amethyst set in a plain gold ring, shone with a pale violet fire—"I am not sure that I quite follow you, John! What woman is this?"
Despite himself, a rush of colour sprang to Walden's brows. But he answered quite quietly.