"It is too late," I said; "a gentleman's sword can never again be soiled by those hands."
"Ay!" cried Foxcroft, suddenly, "it is too late! You say I have papers to prove the truth? I have; and you shall hear the truth, you cursed scoundrel!"
"She is the Weasel's child!" cried Butler, hoarsely.
"If she were the child of Tom o' Bedlam, she is still betrothed to me! God knows," I said, "whether you be human or demon, and so perhaps you may not burn in hell, but I shall send you thither, with God's help!"
And I laid my hand on his arm, and asked him if he was minded to die quietly in the garden; while Mount, knife at his throat, pushed him towards the door.
"Do you mean it?" he burst out, shuddering. "Am I not to have a chance for life? This is murder, Mr. Cardigan!"
"So dealt you by me at the Cayuga stake," I said.
"Yet—it is murder you do. If my hands are not clean, would you foul your own?"
"So dealt you by me in Queen Street prison," I said, slowly.
"Yet, nevertheless, it is murder. And you know it. This is no court of law, to sit in judgment. Are the Cardigans the public hangmen?"