isplay of all that small
capitalist's worldly wealth did not mollify Jean Duchesne. He had been
lashing himself up all along into such a state of brutal ferocity, that
he would have been disappointed if his extortion had been immediately
satisfied; so he broke in savagely on the chaplain's confused excuses
and promises to settle everything at a fitting season: "Tais toi,
blagueur! On ne me floue pas ainsi avec des promesses; je m'en fiche pas
mal. Au moins, on me laissera un gage." His blood-shot eyes roved from
one object to another till they lighted on the parasol that Miss
Tresilyan carried: it was of plain dark-gray silk, with a slight black
lace trimming, but the carvings of the ivory handle made it of some real
value. Before any one could divine his intention he had plucked it
rudely from her hand.

Almost with the same motion Cecil set Katie down, and sprang herself
from the saddle. In her eyes there was such intensity of anger that the
drunken savage recoiled a pace or two, and for the first time in his
life felt something like self-contempt: to have saved her soul she could
not have spoken one word, but her silence was expressive enough as she
turned to Mr. Fullarton. It is difficult to say what line she expected
him to take--not the _voie de fait_ certainly; at least, if the
hypothesis had been put to her when she was cool enough to consider it,
she would utterly have repudiated such an idea. Perhaps she had a right
to look for moral support, if not for active championship.

We will not enter into the vexed question of physical courage and
cowardice: it is a truism to say that the latter may co-exist with great
moral firmness, which is, of course, far the superior quality. They will
tell you that, when confronted with mere personal peril, a butcher or
grenadier may match the best of us. Possibly; I am not going to dispute
it. Only remember that there are occasions (very few in these civilized
days) when the most refined of _bas-bleus_ would rather see a strong,
brave, honest man at her side, than an abstruse philosopher, a clever
conversationalist--ay, even than a perfect Christian--whose nerves are
not to be depended on; when Parson Adams would be worth a bench of
bishops. We can not all be athletes; and, with the best intentions, some
of us at such times are liable to defeat and discomfiture. The most
utterly fearless man I ever knew had a _biceps_ that his own small
fingers could have spanned. No woman, ho