“Between ourselves,” said Uncle Zachie, rubbing his chin and screwing up his mouth, “between you and me and the poker, I have no doubt about it, and I could bring his neck into the halter if I chose.”
“Then why do you not, father? The ruffian would not have scrupled to hack off my head had an axe been handy, or had I waited till he had got hold of one.”
Mr. Menaida shook his head.
“There are a deal of things that belong to all things,” he said. “I was on the down with my little pet and idol, Judith, and we had the lantern, and it was that lantern that proved fatal to your vessel.”
“What, father! We owe our wreck to you?”
“No, and yet it must be suffered to be so supposed, I must allow many hard words to be rapped out against me, my want of consideration, my scatterbrainedness. I admit that I am not a Solomon, but I should not be such an ass, such a criminal, as on a night like the last to walk over the downs above the cliffs with a lantern. Nevertheless I cannot clear myself.”
“Why not?”
“I do not understand.”
“I was escorting her home, to her husband’s——”