"Stand from the door," he shouted, lifting the brand above Rawbon's
head. "Leave that, I say!"

Rawbon's lank form straightened, and in an instant the revolver flashed
in the glare of the fagots.

He did not shoot, but his face grew black with passion.

"By God! you strike me, and I'll set the dog at the woman."

At the sound of his master's voice, the hound set up a yell that seemed
unearthly. Harold was familiar with the nature of the species, and even
in the extremity of his anger, his anxiety for Oriana withheld his arm.

"Look you here!" continued Rawbon, losing his quiet, mocking tone, and
fairly screaming with excitement, "do you see this?" He pointed to his
mangled lip, from which, by the action of his jaws while talking, the
plaster had just been torn, and the blood was streaming out afresh. "Do
you see this? I've got that to settle with you. I'll hunt you, by G--d!
as that hound hunts a nigger. Now see if I don't spoil that pretty face
of yours, some day, so that she won't look so sweet on you for all your
pretty talk."

He seemed to calm abruptly after this, put up his pistol, and resumed
the wicked leer.

"What would you have?" at last asked Arthur, mildly and with no trace of
anger in his voice.