"Whom do you mean?" Fred inquired, evading her question.
"You know; Black Darnley,—the wretch who killed my husband, and injured me. You look like him; but your face is not so black, and your hair is lighter. But you may have changed it for the purpose of deceiving and wronging me again. Ah, the more I look at you the firmer am I convinced that you are the wretch."
She pushed his arm away, and turned with flashing eyes upon her parent, speaking vehemently,—
"You told me that Darnley was dead, and that my injuries were avenged; and yet you see him standing before you alive, and insulting me with infamous propositions. Have I no friend here to protect me?"
"We are all your friends," I replied, in a soothing tone.
"It is false! There is not a man here, or Black Darnley would not live to see another sun. Men, indeed? Ha, ha! my husband possesses more spirit than a dozen of you."
She folded her arms, and rocked her body to and fro, shaking her head, and muttering incoherent sentences, with her eyes fixed upon the ground intently, as though trying, amid the dirt, to discover the blood of her destroyer.
Poor Fred, who looked about as much like Black Darnley as the man in the moon, turned slightly red with mortification; and to this hour, an allusion to his wonderful likeness to the celebrated bushranger is sure to bring on a fit of the sulks that will last a day or two.
Fred retired as soon as he found that his presence irritated the unhappy woman, who, it was very evident, was slightly deranged by her accumulation of trouble.
"We are all friends here," I said, at length, "and are willing to do your bidding. See, here is your father; and do you think he would stand unmoved in the presence of a man who had wronged you. You must surely recollect my face. Look at me closely."