While she was pouring it out he caught her hand. Angrily she wrenched it away.
“Ah! my pretty one,” he sneered. “When are you going to be my sweetheart?”
The exclamation of disgust was no sooner out of her mouth than Florent Garnier was on his feet. He came forward deliberately, and lifting the glass dashed the dark liquor in Popol’s face.
For a moment Popol drew back. He wiped his eyes, and glared with surprise and rage; he fumbled at his belt, and made a swift dart at Garnier. But the powerful artizan was prepared. Swinging a chair round his head he brought it crashing down. Popol crumpled up and lay still.
“Did you see him?” said Garnier coolly. “The dog had a knife in his hand; he would have stuck me. He has got his medicine. Leave him alone. He’ll come round. I’ll take his knife though.”
When Popol got up, he did not seem much the worse; but his yellow face was convulsed and he was as vindictive as poison.
“I’ll fix you yet,” he cried. “I’ll pay you both with interest, you and your lover. And before many days are over. Look out!”
“Did you hear him?” said Garnier when Popol had gone.
“Yes. He frightens me terribly.”
“You needn’t fear. You heard him call me your lover. Listen, Margot ... let me be your lover, your husband. You need some one to protect you. I tell you we’ll be happy....”