As he turned away in sorrow from me, shaking his head at my badness, I became so overcome (never having been quite assured, even by people’s praises, about my own goodness); moreover, the light which he threw upon things differed so greatly from my own, that, in a word—­not to be too long—­I feared that I was a villain.  And with many bitter pangs—­for I have bad things to repent of—­I began at my leisure to ask myself whether or not this bill of indictment against John Ridd was true.  Some of it I knew to be (however much I condemned myself) altogether out of reason; for instance, about my going away with Lorna very quietly, over the snow, and to save my love from being starved away from me.  In this there was no creeping neither crawling treachery; for all was done with sliding; and yet I was so out of training for being charged by other people beyond mine own conscience, that Carver Doone’s harsh words came on me, like prickly spinach sown with raking.  Therefore I replied, and said,—­

“It is true that I owe you gratitude, sir, for a certain time of forbearance; and it is to prove my gratitude that I am come here now.  I do not think that my evil deeds can be set against your own; although I cannot speak flowingly upon my good deeds as you can.  I took your Queen because you starved her, having stolen her long before, and killed her mother and brother.  This is not for me to dwell upon now; any more than I would say much about your murdering of my father.  But how the balance hangs between us, God knows better than thou or I, thou low miscreant, Carver Doone.”

I had worked myself up, as I always do, in the manner of heavy men; growing hot like an ill-washered wheel revolving, though I start with a cool axle; and I felt ashamed of myself for heat, and ready to ask pardon.  But Carver Doone regarded me with a noble and fearless grandeur.

“I have given thee thy choice, John Ridd,” he said in a lofty manner, which made me drop away under him; “I always wish to do my best with the worst people who come near me.  And of all I have ever met with thou art the very worst, Sir John, and the most dishonest.”

Now after all my labouring to pay every man to a penny, and to allow the women over, when among the couch-grass (which is a sad thing for their gowns), to be charged like this, I say, so amazed me that I stood, with my legs quite open, and ready for an earthquake.  And the scornful way in which he said “Sir John,” went to my very heart, reminding me of my littleness.  But seeing no use in bandying words, nay, rather the chance of mischief, I did my best to look calmly at him, and to say with a quiet voice, “Farewell, Carver Doone, this time, our day of reckoning is nigh.”

“Thou fool, it is come,” he cried, leaping aside into the niche of rock by the doorway; “Fire!”