“Who are you,” he cried, “that dare talk to her of sacrifice for me? The world should weep for her. She has, upon the altar of her affection for me, sacrificed a glory, which before, no woman had ever achieved upon the American continent.”
Doane laughed, and Nugent, growing desperate, crossed over toward him, with threatening attitude.
Ouida clung to him, begging him, for their mutual sake to be calm.
“Oh, don’t restrain him,” said Doane, provokingly, “he’ll cool down bye and bye.”
“Oh, I know you now,” said Nugent, “You are from the upper world, a fair representative of the classes who set themselves up in judgment over common men.”
“No,” said Doane, assuming an injured air, “only an editor, whose kindly intent has been met here by rude insult.”
“Take your intent and presence away,” said Nugent, “and at once. We want neither. You and your kind stand well in the eyes of the world, but we refuse to bend beneath your judgment.”
“Yet,” said the editor, “you set up a tribunal of your own.”
“Yes,” said Ouida, “the tribunal of conscience, where we have had our trial, pronounced sentence, and for years have been paying to justice the penalty we owed.”