"Scorn and despise you!" supplied the youth, in a bitter tone.

"Take the words, then, if you choose them."

She was simply grand in her style, till this last expression, which
had the angry snap of an enraged woman. Some high natures might have
answered back her scorn; a lower one might have complained; and still
another would have left her in the woods. Barton said nothing,
but, with a cold, stony face, walked on by her side. If, in his
desperation, he wanted this killing thrust, which must ever rankle and
never heal, to enable him to overcome and subdue his great passion, he
had got it. That little hand, that emphasized her words with a gesture
of superb disdain, would never have to repeat the blow. It raised
about her a barrier that he was never after to approach.

He was not a man to complain. He would have told her why he said these
words; he could not now. Some men are like wolves in traps, and die
without a moan. Barton could die, and smile back into the face of his
slayer, and say no word.

Night was now deepening in the woods, with the haughty maiden, and
high, proud and humiliated youth, walking still side by side through
its shadows. They at length reached the path that led from the open
way to the left, approaching Julia's home. There was a continuous
thicket of thrifty second-growth young trees bordering the track along
which the two were journeying, and the opening through it made by this
narrow path was black with shadow, like the entrance to a cave.

"This is the way," said Bart, turning into it.