"Yes, if I spilled my heart's blood."
Arthur had drank deeply of the wine, and his blood was
heated with it, and his worst passions aroused. He had been goaded into the belief that he had been grossly insulted and had taken it submissively, and that revenge was his only resource. He threw aside his chair, and strode back and forth across the narrow room, with the excited tread of the caged lion.
Clinton watched him furtively from beneath his brows for a moment, then rising, linked arms, and leaned toward him in a confidential manner.
"My poor friend, I pity you from the bottom of my heart; count upon me whenever you are in want of a friend, will you?"
"Always, Clinton; thank you."
"And if I should try to think upon some good plan, lay some good plot, by which you could gain retribution for this great wrong, would you then be courageous, and carry it out handsomely?"
"Would I? Never fear me there. I'll show you that I'm not one to bow my neck to the insults of a money-holder. I'll carry out anything you say."
"Bravo! my boy; you've got the right kind of spirit in you; that's what I like to see—you're a man of pluck."
"About when do you think you'll have this grand plot ready for me, eh?"