“I saw that he was not what he seemed, and more than a match for me, I dropped the knife and ran for my horse, I had tied him in a ravine by the river-side. Curse the Yankee, he was like a greyhound; if there had been twenty rods more to run I should be a dead man; but I got to my horse and was off.”
“It is a total failure, then?”
“Not so. Before, I worked only for you; now I work for both. I have an account with the man who calls himself Boston Bainbridge.”
“You might have had before, if you had any eyes. You love Katrine, the cousin of Theresa.”
The young man turned upon him with a quick look. “Who told you that?” he said.
“It matters not.”
“Why do you bring her into the conversation?”
“Have you no eyes? Why, man, the other night, while Barlow stood at the window of my willful maid, whispering in her ear, whom think you stood at that of Katrine?”
“Who?”