Michaelis.
There is no health in you. Every word you speak gives off corruption.
Littlefield.
Indeed! My advice to you is, make tracks for your starvation desert. A parcel of locoed Indians are about right for a busted prophet.
Michaelis.
What I am is no matter. What this girl is, though you lived a thousand years, you would never have the grace to imagine. She gave you her young love, in childish blindness, not knowing what she did, and you killed it idly, wantonly, as a beast tortures its frail victim, for sport. You find her again, still weak and bleeding from her wounds, and you fling her marriage, in words whose every syllable is an insult. Marriage! When every fibre of her nature must cry out against you, if she is woman. Take your words and your looks from her, and that instantly, or you will curse the day you ever brought your evil presence into her life.
He advances upon him threateningly.
Instantly, I say, or by the wrath of God your wretched soul, if you have one, shall go this hour to its account!
Littlefield.
Backing toward the door, scared, but keeping his brazen tone.