I stepped back from her as though she had struck at me. “Miss Fiske,” I cried. What she had charged was so monstrous, so absurd that I could answer nothing in defence. My brain refused to believe that she had said it. I could not conceive that any creature so utterly lovely could be so unseeing, so bitter, and so unfair. Her charge was ridiculous, but my disappointment in her was so keen that the tears came to my eyes. I put my hat back on my head, saluted her and passed her quickly. “Captain Macklin,” she cried. “What is it? What have I said?” She stretched out her hand toward me, but I did not stop. “Captain Macklin!” she called after me in such a voice that I was forced to halt and turn. “What are you going to do?” she demanded. “Oh, yes, I see,” she exclaimed. “I see how it sounded to you. And you?” she cried. Her voice was trembling with concern. “Because I said that, you mean to punish me for it--through my brother? You mean to make him suffer. You will kill him!” Her voice rose to an accent of terror. “But I only said it because he is my brother, my own brother. Cannot you understand what that means to me? Cannot you understand why I said it?” We stood facing each other, I, staring at her miserably, and she breathing quickly, and holding her hand to her side as though she had been running a long distance. “No,” I said in a low voice. It was very hard for me to speak at all. “No, I cannot understand.” I pulled off my hat again, and stood before her crushing it in my hands. “Why didn’t you trust me?” I said, bitterly. “How could you doubt what I would do? I trusted you. From the moment you came riding toward me, I thanked God for the sight of such a woman. For making anything so beautiful.” I stopped, for I saw I had again offended. At the words she drew back quickly, and her eyes shone with indignation. She looked at me as though I had tried to touch her with my hand. But I spoke on without heeding her. I repeated the words with which I had offended. “Yes,” I said, “I thanked God for anything so noble and so beautiful. To me, you could do no wrong. But you! You judged me before you even knew my name. You said I was a cad who went about armed to fight unarmed men. To you I was a coward who could be frightened off by a tale of bulls-eyes, and broken pipe-stems at a Paris fair. What do I care for your brother’s tricks. Let him see my score cards at West Point. He’ll find them framed on the walls. I was first a coward and a cad, and now I am a bully and a hired assassin. From the first, you and your brother have laughed at me and mine while all I asked of you was to be what you seemed to be, what I was happy to think you were. I wanted to believe in you. Why did you show me that you can be selfish and unfeeling? It is you who do not understand. You understand so little,” I cried, “that I pity you from the bottom of my heart. I give you my word, I pity you.”