"You say I deserve death, yet you save my life."
"I don't want blood on the hands of my people."
"Personally, then, I don't count in the matter," said Weaver, with his old sneer.
She had saved him, but her anger was hot against the slayers of poor Jesus Menendez. "Why should you count? I am no judge of how great a punishment you deserve; but my father and my brother shall not inflict it, if I can help. They must not carry the curse of Cain on them."
"But Cain killed a brother," he jeered. "I am not a brother, but a wolfish Amalekite. Come—the harvest is ripe. Send me forth to the reapers."
He arose as if to go; but she was at the door before him, arms extended to block the way.
"No, no, no! Are you mad? I tell you they will kill you to-morrow, when the news comes."
"The judgment of the Lord upon the wicked," he answered, with his derisive smile.
"You do nothing but mock—at your own death, at that of others. But you shan't go. I've saved you. Your life belongs to me," she cried, a little wildly.
"If you put it that way——"