Rivers, who, on reaching the head of the flight, had been about to move forward precipitately, now paused, though with much reluctance; and to the speech of his companion, with a fearful expression of the lips, which, as they parted, disclosed the teeth white and closely clinched beneath them, replied, though without directly referring to its import—­

“If I am determined—­do you say!—­But is not that the chamber where he sleeps?”

“No; old Barton sleeps there—­he sleeps at the end of the gallery.  Be calm—­why do you work your fingers in that manner?”

“See you not my knife is in them?  I thought at that moment that it was between his ribs, and working about in his heart.  It was a sweet fancy, and, though I could not hear his groans as I stooped over him to listen, I almost thought I felt them.”

The hand of the maiden grasped that of Ralph convulsively as these muttered words came to their ears, and her respiration grew more difficult and painful. He shuddered at the vindictive spirit which the wretch exhibited, while his own, putting on a feller and a fiercer temper, could scarcely resist the impulse which would have prompted him at once to rush forth and stab him where he stood.  But the counsels of prudence had their influence, and he remained quiet and firm.  The companion of the ruffian felt no less than his other hearers the savage nature of his mood, as thus, in his own way, he partially rebuked it: 

“These are horrid fancies, Rivers—­more like those which we should look to find in a panther than in a man; and you delight in them quite too much.  Can you not kill your enemy without drinking his blood?”

“And where then would be the pleasure of revenge?”—­he muttered, between his closed teeth.  “The soldier who in battle slays his opponent, hates him not—­he has no personal animosity to indulge.  The man has never crossed his path in love or in ambition—­yet he shoots him down, ruthlessly and relentlessly.  Shall he do no more who hates, who fears, who sickens at the sight of the man who has crossed his path in love and in ambition?  I tell you, Munro, I hate this boy—­this beardless, this overweening and insolent boy.  He has overthrown, he has mortified me, where I alone should have stood supreme and supereminent.  He has wronged me—­it may be without intention; but, what care I for that qualification.  Shall it be less an evil because he by whom it is perpetrated has neither the soul nor the sense to be conscious of his error.  The child who trifles with the powder-match is lessoned by the explosion which destroys him.  It must be so with him.  I never yet forgave a wrong, however slight and unimportant—­I never will.  It is not in my nature to do so; and as long as this boy can sleep at night, I can not.  I will not seek to sleep until he is laid to rest for ever!”