had no beauty, so weary was the gaze. Every day he had kept it there to jeer at and deride, to insult and shame. Why? Because she had dared to reject his advances, and preferred his brother's love, in the long ago that he would not forgive. She seemed to stand behind me, so small and weak. She called on me as her son to defend her, as a man to revenge her insults.
'A crimson rage leaped into my eyes. I seized the heavy silver candlestick that stood on the table before me, and without a word flung it at the old face that jeered at me. It did but touch his arm most lightly, but his face changed in an instant to a cruel anger. Growling like a beast, he drew from his vest a pistol, and aimed it at my head. I did not stir as he fired, but a strange thing happened: my mother's picture, perhaps shaken by the movement of our violence, broke its string and fell. It fell, and flung me aside in its falling. The shot meant for me struck the frame aslant, and rebounding in a curious manner, made for its billet the white head of the would-be murderer. My mother had her revenge, and she had saved her son. A fierce anger still burnt in my breast against the old
