These simple words had a most unexpected effect. Olaf Güldmar sprang up from his seat flaming with wrath. It was in vain that his daughter laid a restraining hand upon his arm. The name of the Lutheran divine had sufficed to put him in a towering passion, and he turned furiously upon the astonished Errington.
"Had I known you came from the devil, sir, you should have returned to him speedily, with hot words to hasten your departure! I would have split that glass to atoms before I would have drained it after you! The friends of a false heart are no friends for me,--the followers of a pretended sanctity find no welcome under my roof! Why not have told me at once that you came as spies, hounded on by the liar Dyceworthy? Why not have confessed it openly? .. . . and not have played the thief's trick on an old fool, who, for once, misled by your manly and upright bearing, consented to lay aside the rightful suspicions he at first entertained of your purpose? Shame on you, young men! shame!"
The words coursed impetuously from his lips; his face burned with indignation. He had broken away from his daughter's hold, while she, pale and very still, stood leaning one hand upon the table. His white hair was tossed back from his brow; his eyes flashed; his attitude though vengeful and threatening, was at the same time so bold and commanding that Lorimer caught himself lazily admiring the contour of his figure, and wondering how he would look in marble as an infuriated Viking.
One excellent thing in the dispositions of both Errington and Lorimer was that they never lost temper. Either they were too lazy or too well-bred. Undoubtedly they both considered it "bad form." This indifference stood them in good stead now. They showed no sign whatever of offense, though the old farmer's outbreak of wrath was so sudden and unlooked for, that they remained for a moment silent out of sheer surprise. Then rising with unruffled serenity, they took up their caps preparatory to departure. Errington's gentle, refined voice broke the silence.
"You are in error, Mr. Güldmar," he said in chilly but perfectly polite tones. "I regret you should be so hasty in your judgment of us. If you accepted us as 'men' when you first met us, I cannot imagine why you should now take us for spies. The two terms are by no means synonymous. I know nothing of Mr. Dyceworthy beyond that he called upon me, and that I, as in duty bound, returned his call. I am ignorant of his character and disposition. I may add that I have no desire to be enlightened respecting them. I do not often take a dislike to anybody, but it so happens that I have done so in the case of Mr. Dyceworthy. I know Lorimer doesn't care for him, and I don't think my other two friends are particularly attached to him. I have nothing more to say, except that I fear we have outstayed our welcome. Permit us now to wish you good evening. And you,"--he hesitated, and turned with a low bow to Thelma, who had listened to his words with a gradually dawning brightness on her face--"you will, I trust, exonerate us from any intentional offense towards your father or yourself? Our visit has proved unlucky, but--"