"Neither. I have a softer way than those, though no less sure."
"What's that?"
"Why, look you," answered Ammon, after fumbling in his coat, "see here--this tiny bow and arrows; things for boys to play with, say you? And yet a prick from one of them would kill the strongest man within an hour. Naught could save him, for they are dipped in deadliest poison."
"No, no! away with them! away with them!" cried Ferguson. "I could not think of it. 'Twere cruel, heathenish, nay, worse, 'twere rankly wicked!"
"Then, verily, our sense of wickedness is far from tallying, friend," sneered Ammon. "Killing is killing, as it seems to me, and the way of doing it makes little difference."
"Yes, but poison, friend, poison, I say, were cruel, heathenish; any way but that!"
"Well, we will leave the way, then. You want this man, this Gilbert Fane--well, let us say, removing. Is that so?"
"Yes; for not only do I hate him, but I also fear him somewhat."
"And you would have me do it for you?"
"Yes."