"No; for you could not see me then, by reason of the leaves."
"Ah, there you err most grievously. I saw you well. You made a lovely mark. I could have shot you easily."
"Enough!" I answered sharply. "We shall gain naught by arguing the matter. Listen, friend Tubal Ammon, this is our second meeting. Three nights ago you would have killed me on the road----"
"Nay, wrong again," he put in eagerly. "'Twas but an empty threat; and greatly did I suffer for it. Yea, verily, I still can feel the kick you gave me. Yet do I not complain," he added with a snivel. "'Twas well deserved."
"It was, indeed," said I; "and a pistol bullet had been more so. But let that pass. Say, what brought you lurking round our house just now?"
"My conscience!"
"Ho! ho!" I mocked. "The conscience of one Tubal Ammon, eh? A groat for it!"
"Nay, 'tis above all price," he whined, shutting his eyes and drawing down the corners of his ugly mouth. "A fortune would not buy it."
"Quite so," said I. "You cannot buy a shadow. Again, what brought you spying on us from the tree?"
"A guilty conscience," he replied; "for did I not reward great goodness with a base ingratitude? Yea, verily. Ever since I treated you thus shamefully black thoughts have been my portion. I could not rest. I felt that I must look upon the house of him whose kindness had been thus wickedly requited. Perchance, thought I, I may behold him also. Therefore I got me into your orchard while it was still dark, and waited. Soon after daylight came I heard the opening of a casement, and looking from my hiding-place behind a bush beheld an old man standing at a window. As fine a gentleman as I have ever seen. Say, friend, was that your father?"