For a few seconds he was silent. Then he tossed his cigar away with a gesture of impatience.
“Time does not admit of argument. I have merely to apologise for bringing you down here to a fruitless appointment, and to wish you good-evening,” he said in a tone of mingled annoyance and disappointment, as turning on his heel he walked away.
His words and manner aroused within me a sudden dislike, a curious hatred that I could not describe, yet ere he had gone a dozen paces I cried:
“Stop! I have reconsidered my decision. I must see her, for I promised her assistance, and am ready to give it in whatever manner she desires.”
“You know the conditions,” he said, sauntering carelessly back to me, “Do you accept them absolutely?”
“Yes.”
“Then swear.”
He had drawn from his pocket a Testament, and held it towards me. I hesitated.
“You may be tempted to break your word. You will never violate your oath,” he added, in the same slow, deliberate tone in which he had first addressed me. Still I was not prepared for this strange proceeding, and not until he urged me to hasten and declared that my oath was imperative, did I move.
Taking the book, I slowly raised it until it touched my lips.