“You seem resigned to dying,” she remarked.
“Have I not said ’tis better than living with a hopeless passion?”
“And yet death,” she said, “that kind of a death is not pleasant.”
“I’m not afraid of it,” said he, wondering how the 150 minutes were running, yet not daring the loss of time to look. “’Tis not in consigning me to the enemy that you have your revenge on me, ’tis in making me vainly love you. I receive the greater hurt from your beauty, not from the British provost-marshal!”
“Bravado!” said she.
“Time will show,” said he.
“If you are so strong a man that you can endure the one hurt so calmly, why are you not a little stronger,—strong enough to ignore this other hurt,—this love-wound, as you call it?”
She blushed furiously, and much against her will, at the mere word, “love-wound.” Her mood now seemed to be one of pretended incredulity, and yet of a vague unwillingness that the man should be so weak to her charms.
Peyton conceived that a change of play might aid his game.
“By heaven,” he cried, “I will! ’Tis a weakness, as you imply! I shall close my heart, vanquish my feelings! No word more of love! I defy your beauty, your proud face, your splendid eyes! I shall die free of your image. Go where you will, madam. It sha’n’t be a puling lover that the British hang. A snap o’ the finger for your all-conquering charms!—why do you not leave me?”