"You fool," he shouted suddenly, his temper bursting the weakened
barriers of control. "You damned, unregenerate fool!"

And then, for an instant, my father's icy placidity left him. His lips
leapt back from his teeth. There was a hissing whir of steel. His small
sword made an arc of light through the yard of space that parted them.
His body lunged forward.

"So you will have it, will you?" His words seemed to choke him. "Take it,
then," he roared, "take it to hell, where you belong."

It was, I say, the matter of an instant. In a leaden second he stood
poised, his wrist drawn back, while the eyes of the other stared in
horror at the long, thin blade. And then the welts of crimson that had
mounted to his face, disfiguring it into a writhing fury, slowly effaced
themselves. His lips once more assumed a thin, immobile line. Again his
watchful indolence returned to him, and slowly, very slowly, he lowered
the point to the floor's scarred surface. His voice returned to its
pleasant modulation, and with his words returned his icy little smile.

"Your pardon, Jason," he said. "I fear I have been too much myself this
morning. Thank your God, if you have one, that I was not entirely
natural. Take him away, Brutus, he shall live a little longer."

But Brutus had no need to obey the order. My father stood, still smiling,
watching the empty doorway. Then I realized that I was very cold and
weak, and that my knees were sagging beneath me. I walked unsteadily to
the table and leaned upon it heavily. Thoughtfully my father sheathed his
small sword.