"I do; and no amount of repentance, sir, for your ill-deeds would make you so." "Look here!" cried the young fellow, "you've been talking to me like a man sometimes, and then you've been dodging into your clerical jargon again. I've listened to you pretty patiently, and have borne more than I should from any one else because you are a parson; but you've gone too far, and now it's my turn. If Leo--" "Miss Leonora Salis, sir." "If Leo tells me she won't have any more to say to me, I shall go; but as for you--hark here. I shall write to her, I shall meet her, and I shall ask her to meet me just as often as I please. Not her equal, I! Why, you miserable, beggarly, hundred-a-year, threadbare curate, how dare you address me as you do? Do you know who I am?" "Yes: Tom Candlish, brother of Sir Luke Candlish, of Candlish Hall." "Yes, sir, descendants of one of our finest English families." "Descendants, sir," retorted the curate, "of a miserly, money-spinning old scoundrel, who gave impecunious James the First so many hundred pounds for a contemptible baronetcy, which has come down to one of as disgraceful a pair as ever sat like a blight upon a pleasant English village." "You insolent hound!" roared Tom Candlish; "I'll ride over to May and have you kicked out of your curacy." "Do," said the curate. "No, I won't, for Leo's sake. But, look here, master parson, don't you interfere with me, or, by God, sir! I'll give you the most cursed horsewhipping I ever gave man in my life. By George! if it wasn't for your white neck-cloth and black coat, hang me. I'd do it now." He extended one hand, as if to grasp the curate's collar, and raised his hunting-whip menacingly; but in an instant it was whisked out of his hand, and sent flying. "You object to my white tie and black coat, eh, Tom Candlish?" said the curate, rapidly throwing them off and across a neighbouring oak branch; "there, then, for the time being they shall not afflict your eyes or put me out of your reach. Now then, we are on equal terms. Strip off that scarlet coat, you miserable popinjay." "What do you mean?" cried Tom Candlish, turning mottled in the face. "I mean, sir, that words are no use to such a scoundrel as you: that a curate is also a man. In this case he is the lady's brother, and in addition there are a score of insults to wipe away. Take off your coat." "What!" cried Tom Candlish, with a sneering laugh. "Look here--do you know that I can fight?" "I know you were in a blackguardly prize-fight, sir, in a ring where your opponent was a sort of champion of the Bilston colliers." "Yes, so put on your coat and go home while you're safe." "And I know that I have not clenched my fist in anger, sir, since I left Oxford, twelve years ago; but if you had beaten Tom Sayers it would not move me now. One of us two does not leave this wood without a sound thrashing, and, please goodness, that's going to be you."