Some of the bold blood of the stern old Saxon race from which he sprung is in his veins still. He looks at her full, still smiling.
"Dare not!" he repeats. "You use strong language, Inez. But then you have an excitable sort of nature, and were ever inclined to hyperbole; and it is a lady's privilege to talk."
"And a man's to act. But I begin to think Sir Victor Catheron is something less than a man. The Catheron blood has bred many an outlaw, many bitter, bad men, but to-day I begin to think it has bred something infinitely worse—a traitor and a coward!"
He half springs up, his eyes flashing, then falls back, looks at the fire again, and laughs.
"Meaning me?"
"Meaning you."
"Strong language once more—you assert your prerogative royally, my handsome cousin. From whom did you inherit that two-edged tongue of yours, Inez, I wonder? Your Castilian mother, surely; the women of our house were never shrews. And even you, my dear, may go a little too far. Will you drop vituperation and explain? How have I been traitor and coward? It is well we should understand each other fully."
He has grown pale, though he speaks quietly, and his blue eyes gleam dangerously. He is always quiet when most angry.
"It is. And we shall understand each other fully before we part—be very sure of that. You shall learn what I have inherited from my Castilian mother. You shall learn whether you are to play fast and loose with me at your sovereign will. Does your excellent memory still serve you, or must I tell you what day the twenty-third of September is to be?"
He looks up at her, still pale, that smile on his lips, that gleam in his eyes.