I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father. One gets drawn into things. Cocked hats and buckled swords spoke of rank. Morality tells you what is right, and adventure moves you. Nothing else so quickly establishes the condition of comradeship as the sharing of a laughable incident. He jumped back, cursing. There is nothing but your pride which stands between us.
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