"Kill you?" he said, in a measured voice, which seemed torn, word by word, through his clenched teeth, from his heart. "Oh, if I could believe your creed--that eternal vengeance is the only future punishment for earthly crimes--why, I would kill you, before you could utter another word. Do you believe that creed? No--wretch! you do not. You have but preached it as a part of that machinery which manufactures your salary. But now, wretch! as you stand by the death-bed of your victim, with the face of her avenger before you, now search your heart, and answer me--Do you not begin to feel that there is a GOD?" It was pitiful to see the poor wretch cringe against the wall, supporting himself with his hands, which he placed behind his back, while his head slowly sunk, and his eyes were riveted to the face of Dermoyne. "You will not kill me," he faltered; and, with his left hand, tugged at his white cravat, for there was a choking sensation at his throat. As for the Madam, who stood at the back of Dermoyne, she began to recover some portion of her self-possession, as a hope flashed upon her mind: "The handle of the bell is behind Barnhurst," she muttered to himself; "if he would only touch it, it would resound in the basement, and call Slung-Shot to our aid." And with flashing eyes, the Madam gazed over Dermoyne's shoulder, watching every movement of the clergyman, and hoping that even in his fright, he might touch the handle of the bell. That bell communicated with the basement room; one movement of the handle, and Slung-Shot would be summoned to the scene. However, as Barnhurst cringed against the wall, his hands strayed all around the handle of the bell, but did not touch it. At this crisis, however, the Madam forming suddenly a bold resolution, strode across the floor and placed her bulky form between Dermoyne and the clergyman. "What do _you_ want _here_, any how?" she said, tossing her head and placing her arms a-kimbo. "You are neither the brother nor the husband of this girl. Supposin' you was, what have you to complain of? Haven't I treated her like my own child? Yes, I've been a mother to her--and _that is_ a fact." Dermoyne, for a moment, paused to admire the cool impudence which stamped the florid visage of the madam. Her chin projected, her nose upturned, and her nether lip protruded, she stood there in her flowing wrapper, with a hand on each side of her waist. "Look there," he said quietly, and pointed to the bed, where the poor girl was stretched in her agony; her hands quivering and her lips white with foam: "When that poor child entered your house, she was in the enjoyment of good health. What is she now? Shall I go forth from this place and bring a physician to testify as to the nature of your _motherly_ treatment?" The Madam retreated from the gaze of the young man, and felt the force of his words. Too well she knew what verdict a physician would pass upon her treatment of the young girl.