you before, may be
just as much awake as ourselves. If you are determined in this thing, be
not imprudent."

Rivers, who, on reaching the head of the flight, had been about to move
forward precipitately, now paused, though with much reluctance; and to
the speech of his companion, with a fearful expression of the lips,
which, as they parted, disclosed the teeth white and closely clinched
beneath them, replied, though without directly referring to its import--

"If I am determined--do you say!--But is not that the chamber where he
sleeps?"

"No; old Barton sleeps there--_he_ sleeps at the end of the gallery. Be
calm--why do you work your fingers in that manner?"

"See you not my knife is in them? I thought at that moment that it was
between his ribs, and working about in his heart. It was a sweet fancy,
and, though I could not hear his groans as I stooped over him to listen,
I almost thought I felt them."

The hand of the maiden grasped that of Ralph convulsively as these
muttered words came to their ears, and her respiration grew more
difficult and painful. _He_ shuddered at the vindictive spirit which the
wretch exhibited, while his own, putting on a feller and a fiercer
temper, could scarcely resist the impulse which would have prompted him
at once to rush forth and stab him where he stood. But the counsels of
prudence had their influence, and he remained quiet and firm. The
companion of the ruffian felt no less than his other hearers the savage
nature of his mood, as thus, in his own way, he partially rebuked it:

"These are horrid fancies, Rivers--more like those which we should look
to find in a panther than in a man; and you delight in them quite too
much. Can you not kill your enemy without drinking his blood?"

"And where then would be the pleasure of revenge?"--he muttered, between
his closed teeth. "The soldier who in battle slays his opponent, hates
him not--he has no personal animosity to indulge. The man has never
crossed his path in love or in ambition--yet he shoots him down,
ruthlessly and relentlessly. Shall _he_ do no more who hates, who fears,
who sickens at the sight of the man who has crossed his path in love and
in ambition? I tell you, Munro, I hate this boy--this beardless, this
overweening and insolent boy. He has overthrown, he has mortified me,
where I alone should have stood supreme and supereminent. He has wronged
me--it may be without intention; but, what care I for that
qualificatio