Again the cane was uplifted, but Margie laid her hand resolutely upon it.

“Give it to me.  Will you—­you, who pride yourself upon your high and delicate sense of honor—­will you be such an abject coward as to strike a defenceless man?”

He yielded her the weapon, and she threw it from the window.

“You may take away my defence, Margaret,” said the old man, resolutely, “but you shall not prevent me from cursing him!  A curse be upon him—­”

“Hold, sir?  Remember that your head is white with the snows of time?  It will not be long before you go to the God who sees you every moment, who will judge you for every sin you commit.”

“You may preach that stuff to the dogs!  There is no God!  I defy him and you!  Archer Trevlyn, my curse be upon you and yours, now and forever!  Child of a disobedient son! child of a mother who was a harlot!”

Arch sprang upon him with a savage cry.  His hand was on his throat—­God knows what crime he would have done, fired by the insult offered to the memory of his mother, had not Margie caught his hands, and drawn them away.

“Oh, Archer, Archer Trevlyn!” she cried, imploringly, “grant me this one favor—­the very first I ever asked of you!  For my sake, come away.  He is an old man.  Leave him to God, and his own conscience.  You are young and strong; you would not disgrace your manhood by laying violent hands on the weakness of old age!”

“Did you hear what he called my mother, the purest woman the world ever saw?  No man shall repeat that foul slander in my presence, and live!”

“He will not repeat it.  Forgive him.  He is fretful, and he thinks the world has gone hard with him.  He has sinned, and those who sin suffer always.  It has been a long and terrible feud between him and yours.  I brought you here—­let me take you away.”

Her soft hands were on his—­her beautiful tear-wet eyes lifted to his face.  He could not withstand that look.  He would have given up the plans of a lifetime, if she had asked him with those imploring eyes.

“I yield to you, Miss Harrison—­only to you,” he replied.  “If John Trevlyn lives, he owes his life to you.  He judged rightly—­there was murder in my soul, and he saw it in my eyes.  Years ago, after they laid my poor heart-broken mother out of my sight, I swore a terrible vow of vengeance on the old man whose cruelty had hurried her into the grave.  But for you, I should have kept the vow this moment.  But I will obey you.  Take me wherever you will.”

She led him down the stairs, across the lawn, and out on the lonely beach, where the quiet moon and the passionless stars dropped down their crystal rain.  The sweet south wind blew up cool from the sea, and afar off the tinkle of a sheep-bell stirred the silence of the night.  The lamp in the distant lighthouse gleamed like a spark of fire, and at their feet broke the tireless billows, white as the snow-drifts of December.