“I acted wrongly yesterday,” continued Judith, “but I acted under provocation that, if it does not justify what I did, palliates the wrong. I can say no more—that is the exact truth.”
“Is that all?”
“I am sorry for what was wrong in my conduct—frankly sorry that you are hurt.”
“You hear her?” laughed Coppinger, bitterly. “A little chit like that to speak to me thus”—then, turning sharply on her, “Are you not afraid?”
“No, I am not afraid; why should I be?”
“Why? Ask any one in S. Enodoc—any one in Cornwall—who has heard my name.”
“I beg your pardon. I do not want to ask any one else in S. Enodoc, any one else in Cornwall. I ask you.”
“Me? You ask me why you should be afraid of me?” He paused, drew his thick brows together till they formed a band across his forehead. “I tell you that none has ever wronged me by a blade of grass or a flock of wool but has paid for it a thousand-fold. And none has ever hurt me as you have done—none has ever dared to attempt it.”
“I have said that I am sorry.”
“You talk like one cold as a mermaid. I do not believe in your fearlessness. Why do you lean on the piano. There, touch the wires with the very tips of your fingers, and let me hear if they give a sound—and sound they will if you tremble.”