‘I can’t strike you, sir,’ said Dick. ‘You’re her father.’ Mountain’s choking breath filled in the pause, and Dick went on: ‘You know well enough there’s not another man in England I’d take that from.’ ‘You’re a coward, like all your tribe,’ said Mountain. ‘Not at all, I assure you, sir,’ said Dick calmly. ‘If you like to send anybody else with that message, I’ll talk to him. Let us talk sensibly. What harm have I ever done you? Or my father either? Why should two honest families keep up this ridiculous story, which ought to have been buried ages back? Why not let bygones be bygones? I love your daughter. I am a young man yet, sir, with my way to make in the world, and I am going away to London to study. I met your daughter to-night to say goodbye to her, and if you had not come I should have gone away and said nothing until I could come and claim her, with a home worthy of her to take her to. But since you know, I speak now. We love each other, and intend to marry.’ ‘Oh!’ said Mountain. He had gone all on a sudden as cool as Dick, and nothing but his stertorous breathing hinted of the rage which filled him. ‘That’s it, is it? Then, if you’re finished, hear me. I ain’t got the gift o’ the gab as free as you, but I can mek plain my meanin’, p’raps. I’d rather see her a-layin’ theer ‘(he pointed with a trembling hand at the ground between them); ‘I’d rather lay her there, dead afore my eyes, an’ screw her in her coffin a’terwards, than you or any o’ your kin should as much as look at her, wi’ my goodwill. And now you’ve got your answer, Mr. Fair an’ Fine. Remember it, an’ look out for yourself. For, by the Lord! ‘he went on, with a solemn malignity doubly terrible in a man whose passion was ordinarily so violent, ‘if iver I ketch you round my house again, I’ll put a bullet atween thy ribs as sure as my naame’s Samson Mountain.’ With this, he took his horse by the bridle, and passed through the gate, leaving the young man to his own reflections. He took the beast to the stable, delivered him into the care of a servant, and made straight for the parlour, where his wife and Mrs. Rusker were seated at an early supper. ‘You’re back early, Sam,’ said the former, rising to draw an additional chair to the table. ‘Wilt have some tay, or shall Liza draw you a jug o’ beer?’ Samson returned no answer, either to this or to Mrs. Rusker’s greeting. ‘Lawk a mussy, what ails the man? ‘asked Mrs. Mountain, as Samson stood looking round the room. She had never seen such an expression on her husband’s face before. The skin was livid under its rude bronze, and his lips twitched strangely. ‘Wheer’s that wench of ourn?’ he asked, after a second glance round the room, Mrs. Busker’s heart jumped, and she held on tight to the arm-pieces of her chair. ‘Julia?’ said Mrs. Mountain. ‘Her’s about the house, I reckon.’