What do you mean--you, a gentleman--by skulking like a spy about
this desolate place? Tell me," she said, "who is it you hate?"
"I hate no one," I answered; "and I fear no one face to face. My name is
Cassilis--Frank Cassilis. I lead the life of a vagabond for my own good
pleasure. I am one of Northmour's oldest friends; and three nights ago,
when I addressed him on these links, he stabbed me in the shoulder with a
knife."
"It was you!" she said.
"Why he did so," I continued, disregarding the interruption, "is more than
I can guess, and more than I care to know. I have not many friends, nor am
I very susceptible to friendship; but no man shall drive me from a place
by terror. I had camped in the Graden Sea-Wood ere he came; I camp in it
still. If you think I mean harm to you or yours, madame, the remedy is in
your hand. Tell him that my camp is in the Hemlock Den, and to-night he
can stab me in safety while I sleep."
With this I doffed my cap to her, and scrambled up once more among the
sand hills. I do not know why, but I felt a prodigious sense of injustice,
and felt like a hero and a martyr; while as a matter of fact, I had not a
word to say in my defense, nor so much as one plausible reason to offer
for my conduct. I had stayed at Graden out of a curiosity natural enough,
but undignified; and though there was another motive growing in along with
the first, it was not one which, at that period, I could have properly
explained to the lady of my heart.
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