"You need not look at me like that, you hound. Tell me, I say!"

"I will not!" shouted Robin, springing to his feet.

The old man was up too by now, with all the anger of his son hardened by
his dignity.

"You will not?"

"No."

For a moment the fate of them both still hung in the balance. If, even
at this instant, the father had remembered his love rather than his
dignity, had thought of the past and its happy years, rather than of the
blinding, swollen present; or, on the other side, if the son had but
submitted if only for an hour, and obeyed in order that he might rule
later--the whole course might have run aright, and no hearts have been
broken and no blood shed. But neither would yield. There was the fierce
northern obstinacy in them both; the gentle birth sharpened its edge;
the defiant refusal of the son, the wounding contempt of the father not
for his son only, but for his son's love--these things inflamed the
hearts of both to madness. The father seized his ultimate right, and
struck his son across the face.

Then the son answered by his only weapon.

For a sensible pause he stood there, his fresh face paled to chalkiness,
except where the print of five fingers slowly reddened. Then he made a
courteous little gesture, as if to invite his father to sit down; and as