As woman, he was bent upon revenge; as man, he would go warily, striking only to strike home.
"That was a fine horse you flogged to death," he began tranquilly, trailing his fingers in the dead green waters.
"Yes, sir," panted the other, thrusting at the oars. "I don't spare spur when I'm ridin agin the French. I'm a man, and an Englishman—not a pink-faced, girl-eyed booby togged out in a cocked hat and a tin dagger, calling meself a King's officer."
"I guessed that you were not one of us," replied the boy delicately. "Your manners are too distinguished. But tell me a little more about your ride. You seemed in rather a hurry. I take it you were riding for a drink."
The great man swung round. His whole life seemed to have stopped short, and now hung behind his eyes—an appalling shadow.
For one swift moment the boy thought he would be struck.
Then the big man spoke; and his voice was measured and very still.
"If you think I burst the gamest eart that ever beat in an orse's ide for a drink, why then, sir," with crushing simplicity, "you think wrong."
He resumed his rowing, and continued with the same surprising dignity.
"I bred that orse; I broke that orse; I loved that orse."