"Oh, I'm to take myself off, eh!" cried the virago defiantly. "Am I not standing then on my own ground? Is not this corner of the house whose windows I am now rattling, built on the plot of ground belonging to my forefathers? Is not this ground my own? Are not these very stones, these very blades of grass on which I now trample, mine, mine, mine?"
"It may very easily be yours for ever, you wretched creature," said another voice, the voice of the younger squire. "If you do not go away, you shall die on the very spot."
The barrel of a gun flashed between the shutters, and the headsman's wife could see that it was pointed straight at her heart.
Quickly she pulled the little girl towards her.
"Aim away, Széphalmi!" she cried. "I have even taken the trouble to bring a light that you may see to aim straight."
And with that she snatched the candle from between the child's fingers, and held it so that it lit up her face.
"Look now! A pretty child, ain't she? Those blue eyes, those soft lips resemble someone you loved very much at one time, don't they? It would be a shame, wouldn't it, to make this tender, slender shape a target for bullets, wouldn't it?"
The barrel of the gun sank slowly down.
"How do you suppose now, Széphalmi," continued the virago, her face radiant with infernal malice, "how do you suppose now that the headsman's wife managed to get hold of this gentle cherub, who is as much like her as an angel is to a devil?"
"Woman!" hissed someone from within, though whether it was the old man or the young it was impossible to say.