There was a primitive petulance in his drawling tones.
Dick answered with conciseness enough.
“I'm her husband. Who are you?”
Mary called a soft admonition.
“Don't speak, any of you,” she directed. “You mustn't let him hear your voices.”
Dick was exasperated by this persistent identification of herself with these criminals in his father's house.
“You're fighting me like a coward,” he said hotly. His voice was bitter. The eyes that had always been warm in their glances on her were chill now. He turned a little way from her, as if in instinctive repugnance. “You are taking advantage of my love. You think that because of it I can't make a move against these men. Now, listen to me, I——”
“I won't!” Mary cried. Her words were shrill with mingled emotions. “There's nothing to talk about,” she went on wildly. “There never can be between you and me.”
The young man's voice came with a sonorous firmness that was new to it. In these moments, the strength of him, nourished by suffering, was putting forth its flower. His manner was masterful.
“There can be and there will be,” he contradicted. He raised his voice a little, speaking into the shadows where was the group of silent men.