“Pardon me,” returned old Redwood, with a grand bow and flourish. “I was not aware, sir, of having addressed you. I'm talking to Mr. Elias Bacharach. And now, Elias Bacharach, this is what I've got to say. I suppose you know what you air. I suppose you know the names I could call ye, if I had a mind to demean myself to calling names. You look in the dictionary, and you'll find them printed in black and white. But I guess you won't need to look so far. I guess it will do just as well if you look in your own conscience. You know what you've done. You know how you've taken a young, innocent girl, and won her heart, and got it set on you, so that she don't think of any thing or any body else; and then flung her overboard, and spoiled her life, and darkened her whole youth. And you know what honest people think of a man who's done that. That's all. You needn't be afraid. You needn't sit there, shaking. I ain't going to hurt you. I ain't going to touch you, even. I'll go home now. I'll go home, and tell the news to Christine. If it kills her, you know who'll have to answer for her death.” Thus far, the old man had spoken with great self-control; but here, suddenly, he forgot himself.--“But, by God,” he thundered out, “if it does kill her, I--I'd rather _have_ it, by God! than have her married to you, now that I know what you are, you damn, miserable, white-livered Jew!” With which, he stalked from the room; and next moment the street-door slammed behind him. “Well, now, Elias,” said the rabbi, “now it's all over for good and all.” “Yes, I dare say,” replied Elias; “but I feel somehow as though it had just begun--as though the worst of it were still to come.” “Oh, nonsense!” cried the rabbi. “You're morbid. Cheer up. Let's celebrate your deliverance with a bottle of wine.” XIV.