He had felt all
along that sooner or later his enemies would over-reach themselves,
leaving some weak spot through which he could attack, and he had been
content to wait until that time, merely defending himself and his
interests, planning no aggressive campaign.
The effect of the assaults of his enemies thus far had disturbed him
little. He had been able to anticipate most of their attacks and they
had resulted in little harm to himself. They had left him unperturbed,
unharmed--like the attacks of an excitable poodle upon a giant,
contemptuous mastiff.
Deep in his heart, though, lurked a spark of passion that, day by day,
had been slowly growing, warming him, making his veins swell a little
when his thoughts dwelt upon Warden and the others; bringing into his
heart a savage longing that he often had yielded to in the old
days--before he had learned to control his passions. There were times
when he was almost persuaded to break the laws for which he had fought
in the old days--moments when it seemed to him that further toleration
of the attacks of his enemies would be a sign of weakness. But he had
conquered those surges of passion, though the victory always left him
with a smile on his face that would have awed Warden, had he seen it.
Something of that passion was in his heart now, as he rode toward the
Circle L.
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