ting for her cub was aroused. What took place behind the
closed doors of her bedroom when she faced the colonel and flamed out,
no one but themselves knew. That the colonel was dumfounded--never
having seen her in any such state of mind--goes without saying. That he
was proud of her and liked her the better for it, is also true--nothing
delighted him so much as courage;--but nothing of all this, impressive
as it was, either weakened or altered his resolve.

Nor did he change front to his friends and acquaintances: his
honorable name, he maintained, had been trailed in the mud; his boasted
hospitality betrayed; his house turned into a common shamble. That his
own son was the culprit made the pain and mortification the greater, but
it did not lessen his responsibility to his blood. Had not Foscari, to
save his honor, in the days of the great republic, condemned his own son
Jacopo to exile and death? Had not Virginius slain his daughter? Should
he not protect his own honor as well? Furthermore, was not the young
man's father a gentleman of standing--a prominent man in the State--a
friend not only of his own friend, Henry Clay, but of the governor as
well? He, of course, would not have Harry marry into the family had
there been a marriageable daughter, but that was no reason why Mr.
Willits's only son should not be treated with every consideration. He,
Talbot Rutter, was alone responsible for the honor of his house. When
your right hand offends you cut it off. His right hand HAD offended him,
and he HAD cut it off. Away, then, with the spinning of fine phrases!

And so he let the hornets buzz--and they did swarm and buzz and sting.
As long as his wrath lasted he was proof against their assaults--in fact
their attacks only confirmed him in his position. It was when all this
ceased, for few continued to remonstrate with him after they had heard
his final: "I decline to discuss it with you, madame," or the more
significant: "How dare you, sir, refer to my private affairs without my
permission?"--it was, I say, when all this ceased, and when neither his
wife, who after her first savage outbreak had purposely held her
peace, nor any of the servants--not even old Alec, who went about
with streaming eyes and a great lump in his throat--dared renew their
entreaties for Marse Harry's return, that he began to reflect on his
course.

Soon the great silences overawed him--periods of loneliness when he
sat confronting his soul, his co