“You’re right,” he said shortly, though his voice was still gentle. “I don’t. And I wouldn’t. Not until the last extremity.”
“An’ what would that be?” she asked.
“I don’t just know, Miss Last,” he answered smiling and raising his eyes once more to hers, “it would have to be––the last extremity, I know.
“The hands of all my forbears have been clean, so far as I know. I have a deep horror of that imaginary stain which human blood seems to leave on the hands of the killer. Blood guilt.”
“You call it that? My daddy had his killin’s, but they were all in fair-an’-open. I called him a man.”
There was a ringing quality in her voice, a depth and resonance that spoke of war and heroes. The fire that all the Holding knew was suddenly in her eyes, flashing and flaming. Kenset caught it, and a thrill shot through him.
“Granted,” he said quickly. “But is there only one type of man?”
“For me,” said Tharon, “yes.”
“I’m sorry,” said he, and for the life of him he did not know why.
“So’m I,” said Tharon honestly.