He paused a moment, but she only hung her head.
“But we’ll make it right now, if so be as ye’re willin’,” said he. And still as she said nothing, he came closer, and tried to put his arm round her waist.
Then she sprang back, her eyes more than ever startled. She was slender, but she was strong, and she gave him such a thud in the chest as sent him reeling against the bank.
“Keep your distance, if you please,” panted she. “I don’t want none o’ that. Ye’ve been hearin’ tales o’ me, and ye’ve thought ... but—well, there ye’re mistaken.”
He picked up his cap, which had fallen off, and stood with it in his hand.
“I don’t know what ye mean,” he said, a trifle sullenly. “I ain’t ’eard no tales of ye. But I’m sorry I angered ye.”
“I ain’t angry,” said she, and she spoke impassively, her sudden fire quenched as it was born. “Only I don’t want no courtin’.”
“I don’t think ye understand me,” said he, more softly. “I mean honourable by ye. I want ye to stand up afore the parson wi’ me.”
She gave a start, but she did not look at him, nor did she utter a word. Behind her head in the gap of the trees the huge arms of the windmill made a black cross on the luminous sky where the reflections of the afterglow were fading into a steely blue.
“I don’t want to git married,” said she at last, without lifting her eyes.