“So Boston Bainbridge is dead, and one has arisen who is of my degree, and we may cross swords with honor. What care I for what man can say of me? I know my power. The fair Theresa is in my hands; Katrine is in those of Carl Anselm. Believe me when I say that they might better be in the hands of the devil. Draw off your men and leave the place, or we will do that which will make you and them wish they had never been born. Away, I say.”
The fearful threat implied in the words of Van Zandt startled his listeners; there was a quick glance from man to man, to see if every face looked as ghastly as each felt his own to be. The girls were in the power of this villain indeed. How could they be succored?
“Joseph,” said the commandant, in a pleading tone. “Remember that we have been friends for many years, and that I have ever listened kindly to your suit. You are jesting now. You would not harm my child. Throw open your doors and let us enter.”
“I will not. We will fight while a hope remains, and when that hope is gone, you shall have your daughter, as she will be then, not as she is now!”
“God’s curse upon you, villain. Do you not heed a father’s agony?”
“Not a whit. You have given up the work like a coward, and I no longer respect you.”
“This shall be answered at the sword’s point,” cried Van Curter, striking his hand upon his sword-hilt until it rung loudly in the scabbard.
“As you will. I fight no old man without teeth unless he forces it upon me. Your young friends there might take it off your hands.”
“And they shall!” cried Robert Holmes, Boston Bainbridge no more. “Or my right hand has forgot its cunning. Hark you, sir; dare you come out and fight me?”
“I hope I am not such a fool. What surety have I that I should ever see the inside of this house again?”