"It's not my fault we're not friends. I came to these knobs a total stranger, intending to treat everybody right. But when I spoke to you in Hebron, you turned your back on me. Why did you do that? I know why, and in a measure I forgive it. But it was not a manly thing to do. I'm going to talk plainly to you, Buck. I'm glad of this chance to have it out right here in the woods. But before we go any further tell me this--what's that thing?" I pointed at the plant before me. My audacity stupefied him. He blinked at me with scowling forehead--at me and at the plant--probably deeming me crazy. "I mean it," I insisted; "I'm not fooling with you. Tell me what that thing is, if you know, and then I'll tell you what I'm doing out here in the wilderness." "That's a May apple," he said, suddenly and reluctantly. "May apple!" I gasped, my high hopes shattered and gone. "I didn't know; I'm obliged to you." Then I told him the object of my stay in the hills, not sparing words to prolong my story, and ended by asking him if he had ever seen the life-plant, ever heard of it, or ever heard of anybody that had heard of it. He shook his head to each question, then said, emphatically: "They ain't no sich thing!" I knew that the Dryad was safe and away by this time, so now I came back to the topic of the moment. Indeed, the smith had listened to my speech with ever increasing restlessness. I think he suspected I was trying to delay my explanation, but I doubt if he guessed the true reason for it. "You asked me at the beginning what I was doing here, and I'm going to tell you, and tell you the _truth_; mind you that--the _truth_. I've never told a lie since I was old enough to know how base a thing it was." I took two steps toward him. "You suspect me, Buck Steele, of the lowest, most contemptible, hell-born, dastardly trick one who calls himself a man could commit. I'm not going to put it into words, because it's too damnably vile!" The smith began to move forward as I spoke; short, hurried steps, like one takes when about to spring. But whatever his impulse he checked himself, and waited, his broad chest heaving in troubled breaths, his face contorted, his eyes veined and bulging. I knew that I fronted a deadly peril. I knew the man was surely insane that moment; that reason, argument or logic could find no place in his perceptions. He had grasped the idea that I had knowingly and willingly violated the sanctity of this secret place, and nothing that I could say would sweep that illusion from his disordered brain. He saw red. The blood-lust was on him in all its primal force; in every lineament of his twisted countenance was written the word--"kill."