"
"I cannot pass an affront," I said, bluntly. "What do you mean? Who is
this quarrelsome Mr. Butler?"
"An Ormond-Butler," she said, earnestly; "but--but he has had trouble--a
terrible disappointment in love, they say. He is morose at times--a
sullen, suspicious man, one of those who are ever seeking for offence
where none is dreamed of; a man quick to give umbrage, quicker to resent
a fancied slight--a remorseless eye that fixes you with the passionless
menace of a hawk's eye, dreamily marking you for a victim. He is cruel
to his servants, cruel to his animals, terrible in his hatred of these
Boston people. Nobody knows why they ridiculed him; but they did. That
adds to the fuel which feeds the flame in him--that and the brooding on
his own grievances--"
She moved nearer to me and laid her hand on my sleeve. "Cousin, the man
is mad; I ask you to remember that in a moment of just provocation. It
would grieve me if he were your enemy--I should not sleep for thinking."
"Dorothy," I said, smiling, "I use some weapons better than I do the
war-axe. Are you afraid for me?"
She looked at me seriously. "In that little world which I know there is
much that terrifies men, yet I can say, without boasting, there is not,
in my world, one living creature or one witch or spirit that I
dread--no, not even Catrine Montour!"
"And who is Catrine Montour?" I asked, amused at her earnestness.
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