Hastening to the spot with Adam in tow, Laydon crept behind a tree, and without an atom of shame listened to the conversation.
“How would you like to see the wonderful city of Rome and sail upon the Mediterranean?” Wingfield was saying. Her reply was inaudible.
“You must not ask me when, my pretty one; leave that to me.”
Stepping from behind the tree, Laydon placed himself in front of the couple.
“Take your villainous arms from around her, you cowardly caitiff!”
“Out of my way, you sawyer of wood!” replied Wingfield.
“Do you intend to marry her?” demanded Laydon.
“Marry her?” retorted the irate Wingfield, his pride stung at the thought and his conceit blinding his caution. “Do you suppose a gentleman of my station would marry a servant-girl, no matter how pretty the little fool was?”
Laydon sprang at his throat, his hot heart thirsting for blood. Then ensued a fierce struggle as the powerful arms of the carpenter gripped the body of his adversary and gradually forced him backward toward the river. But Wingfield had learned a trick in wrestling when a boy in England that stood him in good stead now. With a sudden twist of his foot he sent Laydon sprawling upon the ground, his head striking a log in his fall. Then pouncing upon the unconscious form, he heaved it into the water.
“Murder, murder!” yelled Adam at the top of his voice. He had taken good care not to utter a sound so long as he thought Laydon had the better of it and was forcing Wingfield backward toward the river.