By and by Ellis’s head moved a little, a very little, and their eyes again met. A minute passed, and in those seconds the civilization of each man moved back generations.
The strain was beyond Clayton; he bounded to his feet with a motion that sent the stool spinning.
“God A’mighty! Are y’ wood er are y’ a coward? Y’ seem to think I’m practisin’ speech-makin’. D’ye know what it means fer 316 me to come up here like this to you?” He waited, but there was no response.
“I tell ye fer the last time, I love that girl, an’ if it warn’t fer you––fer you, Bud Ellis––she’d marry me. Can ye understand that? Now will ye fight?––or won’t ye?”
A movement, swift and easy, like a released spring, the unconscious trick of a born athlete, and Ellis was upon his feet. Involuntarily, Clayton squared himself, as if an attack were imminent.
“No, I won’t fight you,” said the big man, slowly. Without the least hesitation, he advanced and laid a hand upon the other man’s shoulder, facing him at arm’s length and speaking deliberately.
“It isn’t that I’m afraid of you, either, Bert Clayton; you know it. You say you love her; I believe you. I love her, too. And Elizabeth––you have tried, and I have tried––and she told us both the same.
“God, man! I know how you feel. I’ve expected something like this a long time.” He drew his hand across his eyes, and turned away. “I’ve had murder in my heart when I saw 317 you, and hated myself. It’s only in such places as this, where nothing happens to divert one’s mind, that people get like you and me, Bert. We brood and brood, and it’s love and insanity and a good deal of the animal mixed. Yes, you’re right. It’s between you and me, Bert,––but not to fight. One of us has got to leave––”
“It won’t be me,” Clayton quickly broke in. “I tell ye, I’d rather die, than leave.”
For a full minute Ellis steadily returned the other man’s fiery look, then went on as though there had been no interruption: