They were in the midst of a thicket of alders near the river, and the sinking sun, falling through the young green leaves, mottled the path with light and shade. The river, flushed with spring water, gurgled pleasantly over pebbly shallows. It was very still and drowsy; the birds had not begun their evening song.
The two men faced each other, their hands clenched in their coat pockets, and each read the hate in the other's face.
"Insult you!" Vickers muttered. "Cairy, you are scum to me—scum!"
Through the darkness of his rage a purpose was struggling—a blind purpose—that urged him on.
… "I don't know how many other women after the nurse have served to fatten your ego. But you will never feed on my sister's blood while I live!"
He stepped closer unconsciously, and as he advanced Cairy retreated, taking his clenched hand from his pocket.
"Why don't you strike?" Vickers cried.
Suddenly he knew that purpose; it had emerged with still clearness in his hot brain. His heart whispered, 'She will never do it over my body!' And the thought calmed him at once. He saw Cairy's trembling arm and angry face. 'He'll shoot,' he said to himself coldly. 'It's in his blood, and he's a coward. He'll shoot!' Standing very still, his hands in his pockets, he looked quietly at the enraged man. He was master now!
"Why don't you strike?" he repeated.
And as the Southerner still hesitated, he added slowly:—