"It would be magnanimous," said she biting her lip, and then her manner changed. "He rode your horse," she cried, "and yet he has fallen behind. He will be hurt then! Some accident has befallen him!"
"Or he has wagered my horse at some roadside inn and lost! It was a good horse, too."
She caught hold of my arm in some agitation.
"Oh! be serious!" she prayed.
"Serious quotha!" said I, drawing away from her hand with much dignity. "Let me assure you, madam, that the loss of a horse is a very serious affair, that the stealing of a horse is a very serious affair----"
"Well, well, I will buy it from you, saddle and stirrup and all," she interrupted.
"Madam," said I, when I could get my speech. "There is no more to be said."
"Heaven be praised!" said she. "And now it may be, you will condescend to listen to me. What am I to do? Suppose that he is hurt! Suppose that he is in trouble! Suppose that he still waits for my answer to his message! Suppose in a word that he does not come! What can I do? He may go hungering for a meal."
I did not think the contingency probable, but Helen was now speaking with so much sincerity of distress that I could not say as much.
"Unless he comes to Tresco I am powerless. It is true I have bequeathed everything to him, but then I am young," she said, with a most melancholy look in her big dark eyes. "Neither am I sickly."