“What you propose is impossible, on the face of it,” the minister said slowly. “I am sorry—”
“Impossible! Why impossible?” shouted Bolton, in a sudden fury. “You’ve been courting my daughter—don’t try to crawl out of it, now you know what I am. I’ll not stand in the way, I tell you. Why, the devil—”
He stopped short, his restless eyes roving over the young man’s face and figure:
“Oh, I see!” he sneered. “I begin to understand: ‘the sanctity of the cloth’—‘my sacred calling’— Yes, yes! And perhaps my price seems a bit high: ten thousand dollars—”
Elliot sprang from his chair and stood over the cringing figure of the ex-convict.
“I could strike you,” he said in a smothered voice; “but you are an old man and—not responsible. You don’t understand what you’ve said, perhaps; and I’ll not try to make you see it as I do.”
“I supposed you were fond of my girl,” mumbled Bolton. “I heard you tell her—”
But the look in the younger man’s eyes stopped him. His hand sought his heart in an uncertain gesture.
“Have you any brandy?” he asked feebly. “I—I’m not well.... No matter; I’ll go over to the tavern. I’ll have them take me home. Tired, after all this; don’t feel like walking.”